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Oh ironic Universe, why do you punish and reward me at the same time?

For four years, I lived the life of an ascetic, detesting copious consumption, equating work with selling my soul, and generally regarding The Man with disregard. Now, when the economy and structural fiber of the United States is crumbling around me— a time of death and vitality and a radical possibility of change— I’m contently working 40 hours a week slinging mind-numbing suds while socking away (for me) boat-loads of cash.

Is this your way of laughing at me? Do I need to quit this job and become a wandering vagabond— meditating on mountain peaks and sleeping in caves and diving to the sea-floor rummaging for sea-cucumbers for sustenance? If I did that, would everything else return to a state of relative normalcy?

Tell me the secret!