This month I, along with millions of other directionless 20-somethings with liberal arts degrees our stepdads warned us against getting, am applying to grad schools. (Third degree’s a charm, Dad!) It’s a demoralizing process that makes you question everything you thought you knew about yourself. For example, I used to think I was an engaged, informed citizen of the world, but when faced with the question, “Where do you get most of your news?” the only answer I could come up with was “Um, my boyfriend’s Twitter account?”
I used to think I was a straight shooter, the kind of person who tells it like it is and doesn’t care what anyone else thinks, but one glance at my admissions essays will tell you otherwise, because no, I am not passionately committed to maximizing revenue using the power of my first love, marketing. That is bullshit; my first love was Enrique Iglesias.
I think I stand a reasonably good chance of getting into one of my safety schools (University of Guam, here I come! Go Tritons!) but just in case, I think it’s wise to have a fallback plan. It needs to be wildly lucrative and low-effort, the kind of thing you can do a couple of hours a day.
At first I thought of getting an OnlyFans, but now that they’ve gone SFW, I think the solution is clear: I’ll become a homemaker! How hard can it be? I’m up to my ears in domestic skills — I can use the washing machine, wipe out the microwave, even occasionally clean the toilet! I can’t cook, but it can’t be that hard to learn. After all, it only took me six months to master boxed macaroni and cheese.
The only problem is finding a husband. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s not exactly raining Don Drapers out there these days. If you know one, let me know. I’m developing a pathological fear of Microsoft Word.
This article was originally published in Little Village issue 303.
