The Adventures of Random Walker, Episode 1: Of Individuality and Insomnia, Futility and Fumigation.

(Statutory Warning: Serious stuff coming up in a couple of lines. If found funny, pathetic reader is welcome to the club.)

Stuff happens.

The world's a big place. You meet a hundred people a day. 

You go to the market. You meet a hundred people. 

You go to the theater. You meet a hundred people.

You go to Chemistry class. You meet thirty six people. Fifty four signatures in the attendance register. 

Stuff happens.

A hundred people, a hundred minds. A hundred minds, a billion thoughts. 

None the same as the other, none much different from the rest. 

All of the very same objects, yet each as unique as can be.

All of a hundred people, all of a hundred noses.

A hundred right legs, a hundred spleens.

All the same, yet each distinct. 

All of the same, yet each truly individual.

Each to his petty obsessions, each to his pretty goals.

Each to his own corny jokes, each to his fantasies.

Each to his own Chemistry prof.; no wait, you aren't generally awake long enough to know who that is.

Each to his own Easter Bunny, each to his own Santa Claus.

Each by his own principles and morals, each by his own rules and laws.

Each with his own strengths and standings, each with his own wrongs and flaws.

Each to his own, each to his best, does anything else rhyme with "laws"?

A hundred ants scramble all around, three hundred untiring pairs of legs, scramble all around, gathering every morsel they reach, dragging every single bit back to the hill, the hill where a thousand more ants exist, all gathering, all scrambling and all surviving, only to feed their queen and perhaps feed themselves.

A hundred dogs roam the streets, barking here and barking there; barking at the post-box, at the ringing bell, barking at what you never can tell; they roam the streets, eating what they get, minding their business, and those of others. What do they do in life, where are they needed? Married men have a wife, and their word is seldom heeded.

A hundred men roam the world, and hundred thousands more. A hundred read comic books, a hundred Calvin and Hobbes. Hundreds walk the very same Earth, hundreds toil all their life. Hundreds go sleepless, hundreds love; hundreds dream dreams and thirty six literally so. Hundreds strive to be better, strive to learn more, strive to get better, strive to be fine. Hundreds work hard, hundreds work in vain, hundreds die, and thousands are born again. Hundreds learn lessons only to forget them, hundreds are sent to computer labs- these hundreds curse that unholy sem.

Hundreds live long, hundreds die hard. Hundreds exist, and I wonder why.

Told you it would be serious.

No, dear Watson, Cadbury's Dairy Milk is just not a good enough reason for the existence of humanity.

Justification for 'Fumigation' being in the title: Mosquitoes have finally discovered my room. The public health guys gas them away with this addictive-smelling white kind of gas that gases mosquitoes away.

This is NOT a sitcom. If it was, it would've been called "The Adventures of Random Walker, SEASON 1, Episode 1: Of Individuality and Insomnia, Futility and Fumigation."