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dig a hole in my backyard and do not stop until I get there—the center of the Earth—where the meaning is. We didn’t study the meaning of life in geology school, but it was implied. When I get to the center of the Earth, there is a mini yellow house with a barking Chihuahua in the window. I was not expecting to see a Chihuahua 1,802 miles beneath the Earth’s surface. We didn’t study domesticated animals in geology school, nor was it implied, and this dog seems aggressive. I don’t know what to do, so I go back to school for zoology. I try to become a veterinarian, but my application is denied. “You do not love animals,” says the dean of admissions. “What do I love?” I ask the dean of admissions. “It is not geology,” I tell the dean of admissions. The dean of admissions refers me to a career counselor. The career counselor is my high school friend, Sally. “What is the meaning of life?” I ask Sally. “Do you want to be a doctor?” Sally says. “Yes,” I say, “but I’m afraid of blood. And bodies.” Sally crosses doctor off of the post-it note in her lap. “You’re an accountant,” she says. “But I failed high school math?” Sally hands me a calculator. She tells me the counseling session is over. I type into the calculator the formula for the meaning of life, but the calculator does not calculate. The calculator is a pencil sharpener disguised as a calculator, and I don’t have any pencils. I decide to become a person who makes pencils, sharp pencils—the sharpest pencils that have ever existed—chiseled with care by my make-believe calculator into perfect, geometric points. When I become a geometrist, I will tell you: A point has no dimensions. No width, no length, no height. You cannot measure a point, but I can make you one with my pencil. A single, tiny dot marking the page.