For Camus, it was a task. For Dostoevky, it was a deity. For the rest of us, it’s Fat Ho Burgers.

Existence can be boiled down into two strains of longing: The search for meaning, and the search for feeling. Lakita Evans, the 23 year-old proprietor of Waco, Texas establishment Fat Ho Burgers, pimps the latter.

In this televised news piece, which bears the fingerprints of a gleeful editor, Evans defends her burger joint’s name. A “ho” is a scandalous woman, and “fat ho” is something you might mutter under your breath, hoping nobody hears. Ergo, hilarity ensues when Evans opens her restaurant. It’s probably the most controversial thing to happen to Waco since oh, I don’t know, sometime in the 1990s?

Amidst the nuggets of gold in these two short minutes, Evans drops an atomic bomb of wisdom. This is how she answers her critics:

“Look what’s going on over there in Japan. It’s quite clear to us that the world is not getting any better. Why cry and be depressed? ‘Oh, the economy is bad, yadda yadda yadda.’ Somebody gotta keep their sense of humor around here.”

Evans might not mean to wax philosophical. However, there is something astounding to me about a fast food entrepreneur approaching the same question that countless artists, thinkers, and average people have confronted over and over for millennia, then dropping her anchor in the infinite drift by making a sandwich called “The Sloppy Ho Brisket.”

And she is 100 percent right. Life is short and packed with misery. We can think about it, obsess over it, give ourselves projects, aspire to be like Camus’ Sisyphus, happily rolling a boulder for all eternity. We can work ourselves to death trying to figure out what life is about.

Or, we could go to Fat Ho Burgers, get on our grease trap swag, and say “Fuck it.”

Might as well consume 1200 calories in a single sitting, right? I mean, why not? Beauty is subjective, requires maintenance and fades. Let’s gain some weight instead. We’ll have more fun doing it. Jesus, “A Fat Ho Named Bertha” sounds delicious right now. I’ll take two. Clear my calendar, set fire to my tax documents, and don’t even ask me to think about doing laundry. For the next hour, the only thing I’ll be able to think about is my heart, which is not-so-slowly sinking in cholesterol. Then I’ll giggle one more time about the name, which cuts through the gloom of life like a radiant, buttered blade.

Problem solved.