one day I’m going to write about music, and it’ll blow your eyes out the back of your head. one day reading what I write about music will be like having sex with a supernova. one day people will wait for me to finish writing shit about music, and those frustrated with waiting will commit reactionary suicide with piano wires. that irony will be to my writing about music what methodone is to heroin; what softcore pornography is to hardcore pornography.

or this: I’m going to transfer to the New School and schill around at Juilliard and become the best fucking talent show agent in the world. I will drive around in a shifty shitty van. it will be brown. I will collect acts that last no longer than thirty seconds. a middle school teacher with sunken cheek bones and crow’s feet who can sing the national anthems of canada and ireland simultaneously. a skinny toddler who knows card tricks. a man who sets parts of his body on fire over and over again. I would dress them all in rags. the exact same rags, every time, and I’d produce their audition tapes to all the big shows. America’s Got Talent, American Idol, Thirty Seconds To Fame, Star Search. when one of their tapes got accepted, I’d kick them out of the back of the van with a contract and a cell phone and never, ever, ever pick up the phone, no matter how many times they called.

or this: I’d become an expert on hummus. I’d have a cellar devoted to hummus. I’d organize a hummus-tasting convention, which heretofore did not exist. people would come from all over fucking existence to sample exotic varieties of hummus. I’d have chili hummus and cake hummus. I’d even have peppermint hummus. I’d call the convention HummCon. it would grow every year for twenty years, and one day it would become too big for one hotel lobby, and we’d have to move it uptown to the much more expensive DCU Center. the year after that would be the final HummCon, because the DCU center would be way too expensive for our demographic. on the last day, I would worry that somebody would poison all the hummus and we’d all die Byronic deaths like we all wanted to, secretly. on the last day, I would wonder how many people at HummCon would go home sad and desperate and fuck each other, and then decide that this was probably a lot of people, and that at least one pair was bound to have sex which involved hummus in some way.

career services should accommodate for these things. every last one.