I'm Jealous of my Cat

His name is Ghost. He spends much of his days sleeping on beds that aren't his, or laying on couches. He has no need to scroll Indeed, or even Craigslist looking for work, his small fluffy body has successfully evaded Capitalism all his life. Unfortunately, I grew too much. My small child body didn't get hit by the crushing reality, but I grew, and grew, and Capitalism found me, stomping on me beneath that giant boot. Work to survive, work to survive. But I don't want to survive, I'd rather thrive. But so many employers don't bother nurturing talent, only caring about getting the product made, the service served, and don't think about tomorrow so long as today is profitable.  What if I'm not born to be passionate about accounting, or being a lawyer? What if I want to be an artist? In the olden days I could have been patroned by some wealthy noble, paid to write lovely plays and help them get produced at the local theatre. These days, there seems so few patrons of the arts. Some of the wealthy are in fact trying to do away with the artists, replacing those talented souls with machines with none. They sure do love finding ways to get cheaper and cheaper labor, you don't have to pay a machine after all. 

But my little Ghost need not worry about such despair, he is happy with some food in his bowl, and a lap to lay in. I hope in my next life I come back as a house cat to some nice old lady. Don't I deserve some pampering after dealing with this life, of out-of-touch capitalist trying to kill me in a dozen different ways?