Henry Chinaski from Post Office, by Charles Bukowski.
I see something of my self in Chinaski, and not entirely in a good way. Chinaski drinks too much and seems drawn to the wrong kind of women. He goes to work for the post office in Los Angeles where he learns to despise his supervisors and the rigid regulations, and so quits and intends to just stay drunk and work dead end jobs. With the realization that there is little money to be made in such a life, he goes back to work for... wait for it... wait for it... the post office! He labors away in the thankless and miserable job of a mail sorter, certain he's going to die before he can retire. In the end, after a string of misadventures and broken relationships, he quits at age fifty to follow his dream of becoming a writer, feeling that being happy but starving was better than being financially secure but going insane. With the exception of working at the post office and various other details, his life wasn't entirely dissimilar to mine, especially when Chinaski embraces the life of a man of letters.
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-Bill, otherwise known as Kraichgauer