Imagine a world where you're born to die. Or where the smartest people really don't have smarter things to say. Imagine the great religions are full of priests who are largely full of imperfect people who don't really commune with their gods and civil authorities that don't really have some moral authority to conduct their business. If you walk down the city street and see little more than great apes pretending they're something more than primates, and past graveyards of people who to the last grave have the bones of people interred who wanted nothing more than to be loved and aspired to the impossible and realized that every last one of them will be forgotten in a generation. And forget all of the banners and slogans. God will love you? A lie. You have freedom? A deception. You were put on this earth for a reason? A delusion. You are starting to look at the abyss of nihilism, one that Camus witnessed throughout his adult life, particularly surviving a serious disease as a youth, and as a student in colonial North Africa and a witness and member of resistance to the Nazi invasion of France.
You will die. Your loved ones will die. And while alive, you will exist alongside the specter of death, addiction, disease, and foolishness from the cradle to the grave. And you as the individual, are held in indifference or scorn by society, an outsider. History is replete with one group of people abusing another, and in-group-out-group behavior is petty and universal. People are petty and abuse each other daily. And even if you are "special" enough to have done great things or accumulate great wealth, eventually you will make big mistakes or fail by your own standards. You are condemned to Ozymandias' fate.
These are the themes of his works such as The Stranger, The Plague, The Fall, and The Rebel. After you have an existential crisis, what are you to do when confronted by such a macabre and absurd situation about life? One in which if you're smart, you recognize how thin, false, and pretentious the veneer of civilization really is? (And all of which are true, by the way.)
You rebel, work hard to make your own meaning, and be happy. That's the short version of the answer by Camus in his Myth of Sisyphys. You find small pleasures. You indulge in sensual, creative expression. You remind yourself that at least to you, you small daughter IS important and that even if you may have to watch her die, you DO have time to spend with her. You reject immoral groupthink and rail against institutional imperative. You might confront "authorities" in their hypocrisy, or you might want want to hide in a crowd sitting in a church understanding the foolishness of the congregation in believing the words of a man in a funny costume who gets a free house to help people get to an imaginary afterlife. But whatever your choices, they're your choices.
And what of the contradiction that you can build meaning when no "real" meaning exists? You embrace paraconsistent logic and snicker at those who think the Law of the Excluded Middle is anything more than an artifice of the mind:
A paraconsistent logic is an attempt at a logical system to deal with contradictions in a discriminating way. Alternatively, paraconsistent logic is the subfield of logic that is concerned with studying and developing "inconsistency-tolerant" systems of logic which reject the principle of explosion.
You advocate dialetheism:
Dialetheism (from Greek δι- di- 'twice' and ἀλήθεια alḗtheia 'truth') is the view that there are statements which are both true and false. More precisely, it is the belief that there can be a true statement whose negation is also true. Such statements are called "true contradictions", dialetheia, or nondualisms.
You giggle at those who refuse to accept the absurd, and the contradictory, and remember the words of F. Scott Fitzgerald:
The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function.
And ultimately, when the world full of intellectual miscreants and lumbering dolts push you, you reread Voltaire's The Good Brahmin, raise your thumb (or middle finger, or flick your fingers from beneath your chin), and pushback.
(Yes, an absurdist creates her own meaning, ex nihilo.)