Makya's Guide to Life After Graduation
by Makya McBee
Part One: Problems
I'm a senior. This means a number of things: I've fulfilled my science
requirement, I've finally harnessed the power of my facial hair, and I know
the difference an "r" can make (take, for example, the crucial
distinction between the words "importance" and "impotence").
But more important than all of this is the fact that in a couple of months,
this college is going to kick me out of its familiar world and straight
into the streets of reality.
I feel like Godzilla. Why do you think he always trashed those cardboard
Japanese towns?
He's sleeping in some underwater cave or in the side of some mountain--he's
hitting the
grandfather of all snooze buttons and rolling over for a couple more centuries
of Zs when, for one
silly reason or another, someone wakes him up. Sure, he's got a right to
be pissed. Well,
William and Mary is my underwater cave and I'm about to be shoved out of
bed. Unfortunately,
unlike Godzilla, I'm not twenty stories tall. I'm 6'4", but I don't
breathe fire, nor am I covered
with scales that would deflect thousands of bullets. This is the problem.
I couldn't destroy a
cardboard town. I have enough trouble getting a pizza box open. I'm coming
off a four year nap
with nothing to show for it but morning breath and a little piece of paper
that certifies that
I've received a degree in English from the second-oldest learning institution
in our fair nation.
What does this say to prospective employers? Not only can I speak English,
but I can speak it
really good.
Not that I'm particularly concerned with prospective employers. Prospective
employers, to
me, are like the Jolly Green Giant: more of a myth than reality. I've seen
them on TV but not in
real life, and everybody knows what they say (either "Ho, ho, ho",
or "No, no, no"). If
prospective employers were green and giant (and, hey, for all I know they
could be), then this
analogy would be perfect. Of course, if they were green and giant they'd
be just like our friend
Godzilla. Which brings us to an interesting point--mightn't Godzilla and
the Jolly Green Giant
be related? That would explain Godzilla's little tantrums--he's sick of
eating those damn
peas. And I don't blame him one bit. If one of my relatives came around
shouting, "Ho, ho,
ho...Green Giant," and force-feeding me frozen vegetables, I'd be forced
to slap him silly, and
it would be pretty silly, because, even at 6'4", I'd only be slapping
his ankles. And what about
the Jolly Green Giant and Santa Claus--they're both big jolly guys who say,
"ho, ho, ho." Now
that would make a lot of sense. The Jolly Green Giant would practically
have to live at the
North Pole; how else could he keep all his veggies frozen? So, we've got
a giant; a prehistoric,
fire breathing creature; an overweight Eskimo who, along with the slave-labor
of his midget
minions, flies out cheap trinkets to "good" children annually;
and a humongous walking leaf
who spends all his free time vending little icicles of nutrition--and this
is just one family!
We're not even talking about the prospective employers yet. In fact, these
three would
probably be some of the best employers one could hope for. Two of the three
are downright jolly
and the third would probably be O.K. if it weren't for the indigestion from
too much broccoli ice
cream. The problem is that I don't want to manufacture toys, freeze carrots,
or destroy Asian
cities for a living. I want to do what I'm doing right this second--ignoring
the professor's
lecture and, more specifically, writing.
My original plan was to subtitle this article "Problems"
and subtitle Part II "Solutions." But
at this rate, I'll have to call Part II "More Problems." Do I
sound a little anxious here? It's just
that the future of life as I know it hinges on the decisions I have to make
in the next few
months. Do I cop out and stay here in Williamsburg basking in the dull glow
of familiar
mediocrity? Or do I ride off into the sunset only to be burned alive? These
are the types of
decisions Godzilla never has to make. The toughest decision Godzilla ever
makes is whether to
stomp, burn, or crush. The Jolly Green Giant is thinking, " peas, carrots,
or broccoli?," and Santa
Claus is wondering, "condom or diaphragm?" (What, have I shattered
some naive childhood
illusions? You think St. Nick doesn't have sex? Get real, he's cooped up
in that house 364 days a
year, what else is he gonna do? Why do you think he's so damn jolly?) All
I'm trying to say is
that these are big decisions for one person to make. There should be a committee
on deciding the
future of Makya's life. They could formulate proposals while I sit back
eating Cheetos and
watching Oprah.
If you've read this far, you're either (A) a member of my immediate
family, (B) seriously
deranged, or (C) working under the unfounded assumption that at some point
in this article I
will say something that is either (A) mildly amusing, or (B) relevant to
some aspect of your
life, such as (A) career goals, (B) love life, or (C) advice on concise,
coherent sentence formation.
Well I can assure you that I have now completely forgotten my point, but
rest assured that I
will either (A) remember it or (B) won't. Ah ha! A flash of brilliance (well,
it's either that or
menopause): I was going to offer some advice, so that you might come away
from this reading
with something more than a mild headache and a strange craving for frozen
vegetables.
I watched Rush Limbaugh for a few minutes the other night, and I must
admit, he really
made me stop and think. Unfortunately for him, what he made me think was,
"What an
absolute moron!" His audience was like Pez, with their little crew
cuts and suits--you pop back
Rush's cute little cranium and out comes the same old flavor. You see, so
many Republicans are
(and I mean this in the best sense of the word) dumb. Not that there aren't
dumb Democrats;
there are more dumb Democrats than you can shake a stick at (well, maybe
if it was a really big
stick). But all silly political bickering aside (Republicans are dummies,
nah, nah, nah, nah,
nah, nah), I actually have a point. Each and every one of us needs to learn
to think for ourselves
(if anyone out there could also learn to think for Jim Carrey, that would
be a big bonus). It is
only once this is accomplished that we can move forward into a future in
which everyone thinks
for themselves (I guess that was pretty obvious, huh?). Look, I never claimed
to be a sage. At
best I might be a pile of cinnamon--and we all know that that's not too
hard to come by.
Are you confused yet? I was born confused--and who wouldn't be? Everything
is dark, then
it's light, then some guy is hitting your butt, then you've got a nipple
in your mouth. (It's a
little disturbing to realize that I've described not just my birth, but
half of all porno movies).
But confusion isn't necessarily a bad thing. If we take it apart we realize
that it's just "con" and
"fusion," so confusion is just melting criminals together (boy,
that is confusing). But, regardless,
the bottom line is this _______. Now that's a strange joke (and I'm using
the word "joke" here
very loosely). If your criminals weren't melted before, I bet they are now.
Anyway, whether or not you're a senior, you're going to have tough
decisions to make in life,
and there's no time like the present to start worrying about them. As my
uncle always said,
"thinking ahead is better than looking behind" (then again, he
also ate wood, so go figure).
Yes, many were the times at my family reunions when we would all share concerns
and plans for
the future. And then there was the time my uncle ate all my Lincoln Logs,
but that's another
story. Simply put, I need to figure out what to do when I graduate. You've
heard my problems,
and I hope the next time we meet I'll be able to describe to you the process
by which I solved
them, and in turn help you to better guide your way through this crazy maze
("el loco maze")
we call life. Either that, or I will have finally lost the loose grip I
still have on reality--place
your bets. See ya.
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