It was the best of times, it was the worst of times

I haven’t updated in a while, dear readers, because there has been little of note, or at least, little appropriate, to muse about.

I’ve embarked on and am well into my search for that one opening in the US job market that will allow me, a college senior of foreign citizenship and competitive credentials, to squeeze through and enter the capitalistic jungle that is the professional world. Armed with an expected Ohio Wesleyan degree, work experience, and charm, I’ve been hacking my way through job websites and inside contacts, brushing aside rejection emails, and pouncing on anyone that seems even vaguely interested. It’s an exercise in self-discovery, an epic journey that teaches your flattery, deception, and self-glorification. By the end of it you convince yourself of your worth, your potential to contribute to society, only to wake up one Thursday at eight, the drawn curtains further dulling the gray sky, logging on to your Gmail, and reading the universally dreaded opening sentence: “We regret to inform you…”

Oh well, I’ll get the next one. But really, that’s all that’s been on my mind. Classes trudge at their usual mid-semester pace while anticipation of Thanksgiving break prods us along. I work, occasionally, and, as a senior, dutifully attend functions of my former organizations: Horizons, Sangam.

Around me, freshman frolic with first-year college festivities, while my friends and I, veterans of the game, celebrate and reminisce incoherently of the good times, of times to come. In the twilight of our tenure, we enjoy the security of the dorm roof over our heads, the food points on our card, the flexible attendance policies of our morning classes.

Eventually, when murmurs from home of successful peers and rising expectations filter through the phone, one starts to get a little anxious, the night's buzz wears off.

I caution you, dear reader, it’s starting to get real.

Ciao.