I was laying in bed last night thinking about how peculiar little things like life are.

People who work 9 to 5, the corporate drones, the unthinking ones rather digust me at the moment. Guys (and gals) that readily submit themselves to 3 hours in a car each day and 9 hours at the office seem pretty pathetic. How utterly pointless this life seems to me. Five days a week you get in your fancy car or SUV and drive 90 minutes to work in stop and go traffic. Once at this work you stare at the clock and wait for quittin’ time. Then you drive 90 minutes back to your house or apartment or Mommy and Daddy’s house. You accept your life for what it is and you dare not question it. You disgust me.

You are a prisoner, you are an unthinking drone. You exist for the sake of existing. You keep making that dollar, and keep spending that dollar. Are you making a difference in the world? Do you care? Or are you so concerned with conformity that the thought has never crossed your mind? Or is it the dream of that dollar that keeps you so occupied?

The almighty dollar, the dream of the rich. You work so hard to please those around you.

“My son is stock broker!”
“Oh yeah? Well my son is a Network Engineer!”
“My husband makes A LOT of money! I love him!”

Is your self worth measured by your pocketbook? Or perhaps it is measured by those who accept you? Let’s not forget the clothes you wear or the car you drive–these are the things that really matter in life.

No wait, I take it all back. You mindless consumers are what keep the economy running. If everyone dared question even the littlest of things America would resort to chaos. If you all realized the utter irrelevance of your greedy, fat, consumerist life this country would fall apart.

So to you, the 9 to 5’ers, the blind consumers, the MTV generation, and the morally corrupt–I salute you. You are all model Americans.

Well, I’m 32.

My birthday was yesterday. It was nothing spectacular, which isn’t out of the ordinary, because it never is. I expect no less.

My birthday could not come at a worse time. December 29th falls in between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. People never remember–they have way too many other things going on. I can hardly blame them.

It sucked when I was a kid. All my toys said “Merry Christmas, and Happy Birthday”. In high school my birthdays got worse. I always managed to fuck up and get myself on restriction, so I was never able to celebrate. I remember eating dog food on my 16th birthday so I would remember it. It worked. I don’t remember my 18th birthday, but I do know I was on restriction and that I didn’t eat dog food.

My 21st birthday was a classic. I was in the Navy back then, and we were in our home port of Long Beach. It was on a Wednesday. When I finally got off work I wanted to party dammit. It was my 21st birthday and I was finally legal! But, nobody wanted to go out. My best friend at the time, Andy, was off with his girlfriend. Stan was too tired. Ernie was sick. Shotty went home. Well I didn’t want to stay on the ship, so I went out by myself. I went to Moose’s (a place I would work at for 3 years right after I got out of the Navy) and had one beer. It was dead. Then I went to Denny’s and had a crappy, greasy dinner. Then I went back to the ship. Wow. Happy fucking 21st birthday, Tom.

My 30th birthday was probably the best one I’ve had in 15 years however. I went to see Lord of the Rings with my hacker friends. After dinner we went back to a friend’s apartment and played video games for the rest of the night. It was pretty fun, actually. But hardly the extravaganza you would expect for such a momentous occasion.

I’m at the point now where I shit my pants if anyone actually remembers my birthday. This year only 3 people remembered–my dad, Monica, and Scott. This year for my birthday I slept until 2:30pm. I got cleaned up, messed around for awhile, and then drove down to Roseville to hang out with Scott. We took a taxi to the new Indian casino, Thunder Valley. We drank a whole crapload of Cappys and Coke, and I won $150 on the Wheel of Fortune slot machine. Then we took a taxi back to his house and had a few cocktails, and chatted while watching infomercials. It was a pretty relaxing birthday I guess.

So now I’m 32. I was thinking on the drive home this morning about my age. I hate it. I hate thinking about how old I am. I don’t feel old. I don’t act old. I look in the mirror and I don’t think I look that old. But 32 *IS* old. I am old. I hate that. I hate hate hate fucking hate that. I don’t want to be 32, I want to be 22 again. Piss. Moan. Cry. Bitch. Whine.

I’m 32 and what do I have to show for it? I drive a shitty pickup and I live in an apartment. I’m single, never been married and have no kids. I’m unemployed and practically broke all the time. I’m still in college. Oh well. I made my choices, and I live with them. I have few regrets, actually.

Most people pretty much have their shit together by the time they’re 30. Not me though, I’m still fucking around. I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever get around to growing up. You know, wife and kids and mortgage and SUV and 401k and all that jazz. Probably not. At 50 I’ll still be hoppin’ around from town to town, job to job, bed to bed. Hopefully I’ll still have the zest for life that I do now, along with my curiosity and my adventuresome, free spirit. It would be a tragedy for a jackass like me to settle down and live the surburban 9 to 5 boredom that so many poor saps choose.

I choose freedom. It’s always been my choice. Freedom to move around and do my thing, and not be tied down to anyone or anything. My old girlfriend, Cindy, used to tell me, “You don’t want a girlfriend.” She was right, I didn’t and I don’t. I don’t want to have to deal with anyone’s crap. My sister said last week, “Tee does whatever he wants.” She’s right, I do. I do whatever I damn well please and I don’t have to answer to anyone. Just how I like it.

Let us recap–my birthdays have always been shitty, at 32 I still don’t have my shit together, and I’m a free spirit. There will be a quiz on Monday morning. Class dismissed.

“I don’t hate my job or my life. I just realize that there are sacrifices I need to make.”

A very good friend of mine said that last night. The words keep ringing in my ears. They haunt me, as they have haunted me all my life. Complacency. Sacrifice. Acceptance.

My first reaction was anger. I wanted to lash out, I wanted to scream at him. “WHAT? SACRIFICES? You don’t hate your job or your life?” Oh I was livid. But I said nothing. I calmed myself and listened to the rest of the conversation, which was soon changed and then ended.

Why? Why was that my first reaction? Why did that make me so angry? I laid awake in bed last night well past 5am thinking about this. The pitch black darkness of the Chico night was beginnning to fade. I knew the sun would be up soon and it filled me with dread. Yet another sleepless night. And still I laid there, unmoving, thinking. Once again, unable to turn my brain off, staring at the ceiling, wishing I could sleep. Why did those words bother me so much?

All my life I’ve jumped from one job to another, one relationship to another, one city to another… never able to settle anywhere or for anything. I’ve never been satisfied with these life-things I had, I always wanted more. More freedom, more choices. I never married because I never found someone I wanted to marry, nobody was good enough. I never stay in one apartment or house or city too long, because there are so many other places out there I’d like to see, to live in, to experience. I’ve never liked a job I’ve had, ever. Well maybe a little at first but eventually I start to hate them, once the excitement of something new has passed. I can’t imagine ever accepting things for what they are. I want to fight. I want to scream at the world and curse it for it’s lethargy. I want to change everything and make it my own.

Why can’t I accept things they way they are? I could have, I suppose. I could have settled for job security and stayed in the Navy. Never mind that I’d have to give up my freedom. Who cares that my life would be in somebody else’s hands, right? I suppose I could have stayed in my relationship with Kim. I could have been the dutiful husband, supporting her and providing for a family. Never mind that she wasn’t very nice to me, or anyone else for that matter. I could have stayed at Activision, driving 90 minutes to work every morning in stop and go traffic, only to repeat the pleasure that evening on the way home. Everybody else does it, right? Why can’t you, Tom? What’s your problem? What’s wrong with you? I can’t do it. I just can’t.

I want things my way, period. I am most uncomprimising. I don’t make sacrifices, and I don’t take prisoners. All my life I’ve been this way. I can’t help it. This is me.

How much easier would my life be if I would just accept the rules of our society and live by them? I sometimes wish I could. I know I make things harder on myself for my unyielding ways and off-beat views. I wish I could live like everyone else. Work my shitty 9 to 5 and pretend I like it. “Work hard and play hard!” some people like to brag. God I hate that fucking crap. Maybe I could settle on a wife that’s not everything I’m looking for. Raise a family like everyone else. Wife, kids, mortgage, and a SUV right? These things you’re supposed to do, right? Those are the rules. Why can’t I live by them? Sometimes I wish I could. In the end I know I just can’t.

So last night when my friend said “I don’t hate my job or my life. I just realize that there are sacrifices I need to make.” I reacted in the only way Tom Bissell would–with rage. After a night of unrest and a day of thought I’ve come to realize that my rage was misplaced. It wasn’t anger that I felt towards him, it was jealousy. I’m jealous that he has found balance and peace with this lot in life.

I never have, and I probably never will.