"I love Twinkies, and the reason I am saying that is because we are all supposed to think of reasons to live"

A cheerful confession of affection for a snack doubles as a survival strategy. By naming a Twinkie, the speaker locates a concrete, sensory anchor in a world that can feel abstract and overwhelming. The juxtaposition is deliberate: a fluffy, mass-produced cake stands beside the stark imperative to keep living. That contrast carries a gentle wisdom, reasons to live don’t have to be grand, heroic, or philosophically airtight. They can be bite-sized, sugary, and a little bit silly.

“Supposed to” hints at an external prompt, a therapist, a friend, or a cultural nudge to list gratitudes. Yet the choice feels disarmingly honest. Twinkies evoke childhood, sleepovers, gas-station aisles, and an uncomplicated sweetness. The pleasure might be artificial, but the joy is real, and that difference matters less than the lifeline it provides. Even the Twinkie’s mythology, its rumored indestructibility, quietly mirrors a human wish for durability, for something that lasts when we feel we might not.

There’s humor here, a soft shield against despair, but not a dismissal of pain. The speaker is modeling a practice: look down at your hands, name what they can hold, and let that be enough for now. Make a pocket inventory, songs that lift the chest, the smell of rain on asphalt, a cracked joke that lands, the exact yellow of a daisy, the rustle of pages, the warmth of a friend’s palm, and yes, a Twinkie. If meaning sometimes seems too heavy to lift, reach for delight.

The line also democratizes resilience. “We are all” spreads the responsibility and the solace across everyone. It’s not a solitary moral failing to need reasons; it’s a human condition. By honoring small pleasures, the speaker refuses the lie that only monumental purposes justify existence. Sometimes, the simplest sweetness is enough to hold the day together, one bright, edible thread stitched through the darker fabric, a reminder that life often returns through the smallest doors.