Working for a living is a stupid farce

I was sitting through a long meeting at work today in which empty jargon was bandied about and debated incessantly and people in love with the sound of their own voices made sure to say the same things repeatedly, slightly varying the sentences each time, and I had the opposite of an out-of-body experience (my mind was sucked somewhere into my lower intestine and nestled gently there for about an hour) while neon signs only I could see flashed the words: "THIS IS NOT FOR YOU. THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE LIFE YOU WANT TO LIVE. GET OUT. GET OUT NOW." There is something I'm supposed to be doing with my life, but somehow my mind and body aren't getting the message. I need to find some work that is meaningful and enjoyable. If I don't accomplish this goal, I will never be happy. Ever. You know what was great? As stressful and financially miserable as it was, unemployment was the best thing ever. I learned how to cook. I stayed up until 4 or 5 a.m. I woke up at noon. I read a million books. I listened to tons of music. I ate when I was hungry. I cursed the heavens when I was angered. I took thirty-minute showers. Fuck this working bullshit. It brings a man down. It is undignified to work in an office. My college diploma = a two-ply square of toilet tissue. I want to be a living man! I want to bite into the earth like it was a tasty sandwich, featuring all the meats, cheeses, condiments, vegetables, and breads known to humankind! Why is, has, and ever shall be my working day so repulsively insulting to the life I live outside of work? Is it because my parents aren't rich? Is it because I don't know the right people? Is it because I find ambition unseemly and dangerous? Take all jobs and shove them!