The Meaning of Life

Okay, what is the meaning of all of this?

Are we allowed to ask?
I'm not sure that finding out is really the point. I've come to the temporary conclusion that life is meant to be a balanced series of missteps and victories, pains and joys, so that we never become so comfortable as to actually discover an answer.
And what would be a suitable solution anyway?
That the goal of life is to continue its messy organic legacy by procreating and making more carbon copies of ourselves? That the only important thing anyone ever does is making someone else happy? That every person must save at least one baby seal to get into heaven?
I think the resolution to this eternal search for depth that every human seems to seek in one degree or another is pretty glaringly obvious.

The meaning of life is, quite simply....
DRUMROLL PLEASE.
...life itself.
Everything that life is composed of-beautiful music, heartbreaking rejection, sweet potato pie, that smell after a good thunderstorm, pancreatic cancer, frat parties, Buddhist monks, yellow roses, belly button lint, true love-is the answer.
What else could it be? Trying to simmer out all the complications and find a quantifiable label for existence is like taking the orange powder off a Cheeto; all you'd be left with is a bland, tasteless shell.
Also, I'd like to meet a person with the time to ponder this extensively. If all your time is spent wrestling with your significance in the universe, you're not really living, are you? :)