It always was my biggest fear to die without changing a Goddamned thing

As I ramp up my job quest, I am thinking about what I will be doing. I always had this idea that I would never do some bullshit job. I would never work in a cubicle or worry about accounts or reports or any of those seemingly endless office jobs that accomplish nothing. Well that idealism is butting up against realism. I am still looking for a job that will require use of my brain, and not make me want to die every single day. I am sure there will be concessions. Every day we concede a little more. One day we're wearing a tie and singing happy birthday to some fat typist in our office and looking forward to a grocery store bought ice cream cake in the strange smelling communal office fridge. Shit.

Does it really matter what we do as a job? Is it really part of our life like that? Or is it just a vehicle to other kinds of happiness? Does it matter what I do from 9-5 of every day of my goddamned life? Or can I just use that money to set up model trains or collect coins or whatever the hell else middle aged men hobby at. Can I be happy being the secretly tattoed accounts manager at some whatever business? Living my real life in the evenings and weekends? Or will it eat my soul. chomp chomp chomp.

Alas.

Looks like I'll be getting a new car in the near future. Suggestions? Another concession. I used to drive these 'bombs.' I loved them, I loved having a car that made me happy. I would drive around just to drive, smoking cigarettes, changing CDs, brooding, laughing, dating - living what I wanted to be my life in these ridiculous cars. Then I kinda grew up. Small concessions here and there. I drive a "new car" now. At least it is fun to drive, fast and exciting. Maybe that's done too. Maybe my next car will be a Nissan Sentra. I don't like it. I know it is childish and immature, but I love my car. I hate my car, but I love my car. Maybe I can just switch from loving performance to loving practicality and fuel mileage. Ugh, I don't want to grow up.