“Ain’t nothin’ special in this world,” the waitress says with a gravelly voice that carries the substantial weight of (you think) no less than three hundred thousand cigarettes.
Her callous and surprisingly profound response to your innocent question about the daily special hits you like a ton of bricks. If nothing is special, then nothing is worth preserving. Does that mean, if the purpose of experience is the preservation of the memory of sensation, that nothing is worth doing? Is nothing worth feeling? If all things are equal, they are all equally meaningless and the only logical response is to do nothing at all – to curl up in the proverbial sock drawer and waste away into a deliberate, yet ultimately pointless, death.
The waitress clears her throat, snapping you out of your masturbatory reflection into the human condition.
“You gonna have somethin’ or what, honey?”