So the other Tuesday morning I passed out in Saybrook’s dining hall. I guess that’s not too uncommon. For people that live in Saybrook. I’m in Morse. And I was eating lunch — it was 1:27 p.m.

So my friend walks over and says, “Dude, Will, what happened — rough night?” It’s not unheard of to have a “rough” night during the weekend (i.e., Thursday-Sunday). It’s also semi-okay if you are hung over from Pierson’s Tuesday Night Club or Toad’s Wednesday Night Dance Party. But who has a rough MONDAY night — Dennis Miller?

“Jeez, what’s going on with you, man?” I thought to myself. “It’s been pretty much downhill since that failed swim test at Camp Kanata. Everyone knows the cool kids swim in the deep end.” Since then it’s been just one big away message.

And that’s when I realized: I needed to make a comeback. At life.

Sure, I had my share of some memorable moments: the birth of my younger brother, my first love, “World’s Wildest Police Chases IV.” Pretty good stuff, but ultimately blips on my life’s dismal EKG. So I looked at some more traditional options to give my life some meaning:

1. Join a cult.

2. Become a ninja.

3. Rise to child stardom.

First off, cults are definitely interesting, plus it’s a great conversation piece to use for those people you don’t really know but always say “hi” to in your college dining hall or at SAE Late Night:

“Dude, I haven’t seen you in forever, how’ve you been?”

“Oh, you know, nothing much, I guess. I mean, I kinda joined this cult the other day. It’s a really good group of people — everyone in the group is pretty serious about it, but I don’t know if I’m really into all the ritualistic pain.” Then again, cults are very demanding on one’s time, and the nearest I’ll ever get to a Skulls tap is wearing a yarmulke to my cousin’s bar mitzvah.

As far as the ninja option, I got pretty excited about its potential. First of all, ninjas are definitely sweet. As a child I had studied their teachings watching educational cartoon films on Saturday mornings. The concept of fighting crime appealed to me, but my love of ninjas was permanently tainted the day I was deflowered of my ninja innocence. (Turtles don’t have opposable digits — holding nunchucks and a slice of pepperoni pizza is next to impossible!)

Still, I remained undeterred. As a ninja apprentice I could lounge around all day at the dojo (it’s on the sixth floor of Payne Whitney) basically shooting the shit with the other ninjas. Instead of playing with my yang I could be calibrating it to my yin. Like a TA that gives you all the answers to a problem set, my trusty sensei would train me to kill with only such limited tools as a Trapper Keeper and a passable knowledge of the Dewey Decimal system.

But I had to pass up the ninja route, as so many have done before me. Seppuku, or killing oneself when all appears lost, is still standard practice for modern ninjas. And being a wimp, I had to admit that I probably wouldn’t be able to stick a katana into my stomach and twist once to the east and once to the west, even during my impending Chaucer recitation.

My final option: child stardom. Well, I only have another month of being a teenager, and they’ve already cast the next “Survivor: Thailand,” and “Temptation Island 3” has been canceled by Fox. Damn. Plus, it would be so taxing to go through all the rigmarole that goes with child stardom (cutting all ties to my family, developing a coke addiction, and hanging out with Michael Jackson). The only part of the whole child star thing that really appealed to me was maybe watching my “E! True Hollywood Story.” I can almost hear it now:

” — But throwing $100 bills at strippers wasn’t the only thing Will was throwing away; this Ivy League playboy, who seemed to have it all, was throwing away his life.”

But then I heard about this famous columnist who’s already throwing $100 bills at strippers. So that was that. My new comeback plan: hang around the Yale Daily News scene desk and impersonate Natalie Krinsky.

Hey, I can write about dance floor erections with the best of ’em.

Will Garneau saw you read Natalie’s column first.