Why The Hitchhiker's Guide Is My Go-To When Life Feels Pointless

Look, every couple of years, I hit a wall. You know the one—where you're staring into space, wondering what the hell life's all about. Those existential crises sneak up on me, whether it's a rough patch at work, a big life change, or just the universe feeling like a giant, indifferent void. And every time, I end up grabbing my battered copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams. It's not just a book (or radio show, or whatever else it's been). It's like a friend who shows up with a bad joke and a beer, reminding me that if life's meaningless, at least it's pretty damn funny.

I first stumbled across Hitchhiker's in high school, probably around the time I was freaking out about what I was "supposed" to do with my life. The idea that the answer to everything might just be "42"—and nobody knows the question—blew my mind. Adams doesn't try to sell you some grand purpose. Instead, he throws you into a universe where Earth gets bulldozed for a space highway, Vogons write the worst poetry imaginable, and a depressed robot named Marvin mopes around with a brain the size of a planet. It's chaos, and it's hilarious. That's when I realized: maybe the point isn't to find meaning but to laugh at how absurd it all is.

The series has this knack for making the big, scary questions feel lighter. Like, take Zaphod Beeblebrox, the galactic president who's basically a walking midlife crisis with two heads and a thing for Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters. Or Arthur Dent, just a regular dude in a bathrobe, trying to make sense of a universe that keeps throwing curveballs. They're not heroes—they're as lost as I feel sometimes. But Adams' wit, that dry British humor, turns their ridiculous adventures into something comforting. Life's a mess? Sure, but so's the universe, and it's still worth a chuckle.

I've gone back to Hitchhiker's every few years, especially when I'm in a funk. There's something about Adams' writing that makes the cosmic scale of our problems feel manageable. When you're reading about a planet being demolished for a hyperspace bypass, your own problems start to look a bit smaller. And that's the thing—Adams doesn't trivialize our struggles. Instead, he puts them in perspective, showing us that the universe is vast and chaotic, but that's okay. We can still find joy in the absurdity of it all.

The book's message isn't that life is meaningless—it's that meaning isn't something you find, it's something you create. Whether it's through friendship, adventure, or just trying to get a decent cup of tea in space, we make our own purpose. And sometimes, that purpose is as simple as sharing a laugh at the universe's expense.

So when life gets heavy, when the existential questions start piling up, I reach for my well-worn copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide. Because sometimes, the best way to deal with the meaning of life is to remember that the answer is 42, and that's perfectly fine.