I have finally achieved the almighty status of being a Dartmouth senior, but with such a prestigious position comes the responsibility of deciding what I am going to do with my life -- i.e. my future plans.
This reality has prompted the development of a series of hive-like rashes on my forehead, a strange disorder that seems to be exacerbated as I come closer to the Career Services entrance in Collis.
No offense, Career Counselor Susan Wright, but I think I am severely allergic to the carpeting and lighting in your office, so our appointment will have to be postponed until my seborrhea, conjunctivitis, hemorrhoids, shingles and psychogenic pain disorder clear up.
Ok, maybe my problem really started when I chose an impractical major--psychology--but I can ensure most of those who are presently worried about my mental and physical condition that I have confidently diagnosed all of my own diseases, phobias and assorted disorders using the recently released Diagnostic Statistics Manual IV.
In fact, I am presently administering cognitive, behavioral, psychoanalytical and biological therapy to myself. I think I'm going through my oral-anal-phallic-genital "I have severe breast-milk withdrawal" stage.
Don't worry Mom and Dad, the $100, 000 didn't go to waste because, as of now, I am fairly adept at pinpointing my mental difficulties to any potential interviewers, booting and rallying and taking multiple-choice psychology exams. I'm a shoe-in for a Fortune 500 company - that should read I'll be fortunate 500 times over to work for a shoe company.
To highlight my senior woes, let me briefly detail an experience I had recently with one of my fellow '95 classmates, a "tool-driven" Computer Science (CS) major. In fact, this CS major's academic history at Dartmouth can best be summed up by his favorite personalized T-shirt slogan "The closest I came to a 4.0 at Dartmouth was my cumulative grade point average."
According to my highly talented peer, he will be making a six digit salary within his first 10 years of employment and his prognosis for advancement on the computer corporate ladder is phenomenal. He told me the interview process was merely a formality -- a necessary but unimportant step in his meteoric rise to the top of his field.
His humble attitude about the future impressed me about as much as the plump-when-you-cook-it effect of Food Court's chili dogs and I felt absolutely obligated to burst his egocentric bubble.
Quickly hiding in my knapsack the Del Taco application I had just picked up in Leb, I engaged him in conversation about my future job prospects in the real world.
Not wanting to break the sacred Dartmouth Honor Principle by lying to a fellow classmate, I told him of the innumerable job offers that could potentially be available for me, the consummate Dartmouth psychology major.
I assured him that I would be highly successful in my sphere of employment, but that my track towards financial security and future bliss would not require 10 years of rigorous employment challenges provided by such companies as Microsoft or Oracle.
Being totally candid, I told him that seven-digits was practically a certainty for my place of employment this September. He looked nauseated and unnerved, doubting the veracity of my statement, and walked away in disbelief.
Luckily, he didn't give me a chance to finish. The seven digits I to which I was referring were 643-6135 -- EBA's, can I have your phone number please?
