I remember when I had hopes and dreams and aspirations. I wanted to do something important. I wanted what I did with my time to mean something.

What happened?

I’ve had some aggression problems over the past few months. I wanted to blame it on the commute to work, or the unbearable weather over the past few weeks. In the end, though, I have to blame myself for setting the bar at a place that I can’t reach where I am right now. No amount of hopping from leg to leg is gonna get me up to the point where I am satisfied by what I do.

It’s a job. I wish it weren’t. I really wish I were doing something that matters. I used to–when I was working with Talking Books, getting books on tape for the blind, I felt like what I did really mattered. Now… not so much.

What I do is help rich people shuffle money around from one pocket that doesn’t belong to them to another. I satisfy capitalism. When did that happen?