epiphany

As I lay in bed two nights ago, I asked myself what I wanted to do when I grow up (in less than two months). Publishing? True, it has been my devout goal for the past eight months, but salaries are low, and do I really want a job with homework? Teaching? Kids—ugh. Writing? I'd rather be watching television. Lawyer, Social Worker, Professor? I shudder at the thought of going to another class, ever. I never thought I would identify with the sentiment expressed in Office Space—that if I had a billion dollars, I would want to do nothing—but I do, I really do. If you need any proof, simply ask my friend Jessi who saved the three-page conversation I had with her away message on Instant Messenger last night.

So I rephrased the question: What job would I hate the least upon graduation? Something utterly nonacademic, something hands-on. Something retail maybe? Then, it hit me: a chef! I would love to be a chef! Just working with food all day long, trying to come up with ways to reinvent the chicken. It would be awesome.

I've started looking into it, and there are a few drawbacks: another four years at school, plus years of apprenticeships. Not to mention the hours: 4 pm to 2 am, hmmm.

So what does this tell me? Just how dire a toll academia has taken on my psyche. My mental acuity has been shattered to the point that cooking sounds like my calling. (And maybe it is, maybe it is, but there's no way to know right now.)