Recently I decided not to attend graduate school next year. This decision rests predominantly on the fact that the admissions deadline for the one school that I wanted to attend has already passed. Oops. After much deliberation, I decided that mailing the application in late with “My bad” scrawled across it might be unwise.

So now I get to endure six months of the following conversation:

The Most Annoying Person Ever: “So what are you doing next year?”

Me: “I don’t even know what I’m doing this weekend.” (awkward silence) “Do you know what you’re doing?”

T.M.A.P.E.: “Oh, yeah. I already have an offer from [enter Morgan Stanley, McKinsey or Lehman Brothers here].”

Me: “The other day somebody offered me half of their cookie.”

T.M.A.P.E: Smiles sympathetically before walking away.

Thus, since I will be getting the frig outta here in May, I should probably get on top of answering the “what do you want to be when you grow up” question. (Side note: UCS did not find my “I wanna be a junkie when I grow up” proclamation nearly as amusing as I did.) These last three years, I kept hoping that my future would just fall into place. I thought that life would just magically work out — like one of those Disney movies where the team with the fat kid gets the trophy at the end.

Yet here I am, a senior with no proverbial trophy in sight (although I did gain 10 pounds during midterms). First of all there’s the issue of skills and/or talents and the fact that I have none. Whoever thought that taking me out of my parents’ supervision, throwing me in an environment with 5,000 other beer-guzzling slobs, and having my parents pay for it all would prepare me for the real world was definitely smoking the good sh–.

I have not progressed. In fact, I seem to be deficient in the basic human traits that everyone else seems to have either been born with or acquired at some point in their lives. For instance, while some people mature and evolve with age, my maturity level has been in a downward spiral since day one, and is currently approaching that of a sperm.

I’m probably the only 22-year old who (no lie) still gets into “is not, is too” fights with her 6-year old sister and has to put tape down the center of the car seat on family trips. (Actually, I’m probably the only 22-year old who actually has a 6-year old sister, but that’s a whole ‘nother story that involves my therapy-inspiring realization at age 15 that my parents were not, in fact, celibate.) And let’s not forget that ex of mine and his monthly e-mails informing me that my status as “the most selfish person on the face of the earth” is still secure. No, I have definitely not evolved along with the rest of my contemporaries.

Yup, here I am nearing the end of college. The most valuable lesson I’ve learned in my college experience is that undressing, standing backwards in front of a mirror, and clenching your butt cheeks is by far the scariest thing you’ve ever seen.

My scholarship foundation committees would be so pleased.

But all unqualified and ill-equipped qualities aside, I have to come up with a game plan. Let’s explore the options, shall we?

I could:

1) Be like the guy I met this summer who informed me he was never going to get a job because that would be “giving in.”

2) Apply to grad school next year — this time remembering deadlines, recommendations and the fact that writing “I put out” underneath the “anything else we need to know about you” question is not funny to everybody. But there’s more. I’m also more than a little worried about the “criminal record” question included on most grad school applications. True that it really didn’t bother my parents who, a full year after my incarceration, still feel compelled to make the “Well, Noelle, don’t you look arresting this evening!” jokes whenever I’m home. The admissions committees, however, may not be as understanding.

3) Take one friend’s suggestion that I go try and find a husband back home in the South where “marrying well” is a competitive sport. (Yeah, and the ice capades are taking place in Hell this year.)

4) Find a job. Evidently, you can hire a person to do this for you called a “headhunter,” which I believe was both a villain on a past episode of Scooby Doo, as well as the nickname of a promiscuous girl at my high school. But they were unsuccessful in helping me. Apparently, all of the junkie jobs were already taken. Who knew? So it seems, the chances of my finding a job in this economy are lowering faster than Bob Dole on Viagra withdrawal.

I absolutely refuse to buy the “Idiot’s Guide to Finding a Job” book. First of all, the fact that a book series written by a self-proclaimed “idiot” is so successful really discredits us as a nation. Personally, I believe that anyone who purchases this book should have their chests emblazoned with a scarlet letter “I” to inform potential employers of the grave mistake they’d be making in hiring that person.

Wow, 893 words. This column is already over and I still haven’t figured out what to do with my life. How embarrassing. Well, what else is there left to say but: My bad.

Noelle Hancock is a senior in Saybrook College.