Upon Graduating

The other day I came to the terrible realization that the future is at once wide open and closed, dead bolted,  doomed. In the sleepy winter months, this throat restricting, panic-driven paranoia lied dormant, padded with three hour naps and marathon America's Next Top Model. But with the start of my final semester at Wofford, my general apathy has been poked rather rudely by the awful ephipany that I have absolutely no job skills and double majors that proclaim my proficiency at two languages I've been using for the past twenty years of my life. Perfect.

Now I find myself waking up at 3 AM with a start and stumbling to the computer for hours upon hours of unsuccessful job hunting.  And I know the search is starting to reach the point of hopelessness when a Jenny Craig consultant actually doesn't sound quite that bad. But what about Career Services, you say? Sure, if I want to find a job as a summer camp counselor or stay in Spartanburg for the rest of my life.

I wonder if the rest of my classmates feel the same way I do. I stare at their silly, smiling, wholesome faces in vain, hoping to see vestiges of the same frantic frenzy that is slowly ruining my life. How can I sit through another class discussing the uses of the semi colon when three months from now, my future employer at lame job x could care less if I knew where to put a comma, or even the secret behind the oft-used but never correctly, dash? In an effort to cure myself of this dreadful disease, I've come to rely on apathy. Apathy in high doses is generally helpful in cases like mine. On an average day, I usually say "screw it" on at least ten different occasions. Parts of the old Anna still attempt to peak through, for instance, that time at Burwell when I became unnaturally angry after spotting some poor unfortunate thing wearing corduroy capris. But then, good ole apathy rubbed my tummy while making soothing, clucking noises, until I felt right again.