I think making your bed is the perfect symbol of the human condition and I'm not joking.

It's an unenjoyable practice in futility that many partake in every day for no other reason than because they feel compelled to. What does it matter what orientation and position the blankets are in when you're not there to see them? What does it matter when even when you are there, you're only there for the express purpose of using those blankets and destroying all the work you put in?

It's a practice made meaningless by the inevitable oblivion of the product and by its complete pointlessness during its short existence - a true example of how we toil away what little time we have with monotonous labors that mean nothing in the face of a vast universe of potentialities and that will inevitably fade away with the passage of time. The product is meaningless, the labor is meaningless, and the laborer toils on until they waste away.

So, as an absurdist, I have a very messy bed.