"We Sell Greeting Cards"

"Everyone has their purpose," said the man in the airport. He was middle-aged and middle-class, average height, average build, and there I was talking to another stranger on another layover over another cup of coffee.

He'd seen me reading and asked if I was a student, so I told him the path I'd chosen. That's what elicited his statement. "Everyone has their purpose." My radar went on the alert at the prospect of having A Conversation of Significance.

"What's yours?" I asked.

"We sell greeting cards."

"Oh!" Outwardly I smiled and nodded while he went on about trying to undersell Hallmark. Inwardly I raged.

A means, perhaps - an element of one's purpose. But nobody's purpose is to sell greeting cards. Nobody's.