Your life (just like everyone elses's) is like eating a bad peach.
You bite into the blushing fruit dressed in the colors of a beginning sunset expecting it to taste, well, rather peachey
But by some mistake you were handed the wrong peach (and sometimes even the wrong fruit) off of the wrong branch on the wrong tree way off in the wrong hypothetical galaxy given to you by the wrong proverbial god (I.E. The Grim Reaper instead of Perstephanie, who, consequently, grows very bad peaches as you can imagine).
So here you are eating this mushy fruit bruised by the process in which it came to you, and it is slowly becoming the quintessence of your life. Your very heart assuming the form of a pit.
With each wince you make and each swallow you take, the terrible peach you are eating disappears. It's sole purpose to be a bad peach eaten by you, another "bad peach" waiting to be eaten by another wrong person at the wrong time in exactly the wrong place.
The entire existence of humanity rests upon these wrong actions and bad fruit. When asked, "What is the purpose of this life?"
In a despondent tone, one is to respond with: "None at all."