Preface

It is considerable weight placed upon young shoulders to choose a profession. Badgered by professors and pushy aunts alike, one reflects upon their formidable seventeenish years of ill advised haircuts, abandoned instruments, standardized testing, hormonal weathering, and algorithmic taste, hoping to answer the question: Who the fuck are you?

In a performance of elaborate self examination, you write essays, ponder your alleged values, and arrive at some provisional conclusion about your experience, indicative of the fine addition you would make to Southwestern Liberty University, or analogous temples of collegiate prestige. You do it a few times, send ‘em off, and wait.

When the time for champagne and self reverence, or respective tears and victimhood has elapsed, select an establishment in which to party, and sometimes raise your hand to spew your feelings. Feelings rather than thoughts, as having not done the reading, you embrace the loftier pursuit of piggybacking.

A year or so of this. Followed by, not to worry, three more. Just, first, declare your major. And declare is the word. You are not a boy. You’re a man, one with a burning interest in such riveting subjects as Applied Quantitative Economics, Comparative Capital Systems, or Financial Engineering, naturally. That, or you’ve just seen The Wolf of Wall Street. Either is acceptable.

And several varietals exist—I’m acquainted with countless girls turned women with an unquenchable thirst for Strategic Communication, for example.

So you’ve picked a lane, now cultivate skill. Mold yourself into that person, then shimmy your way through the door. This approach has served adequately for many. Respectably, even. An eager plenty have taken the long route to their internship and I applaud their pageantry. For the likes of us who value efficiency, though, I offer a practical alternative.

It is my view that by twenty years old, we hold within us all we need to excel, and on a path we’ve already set out upon. Higher education holds little sway here. Further contemplation—god forbid soul searching—by this time, renders counterproductive. The urge to do so can be satisfied with the acquisition of a pet snake, experimentation with aerial silks, or in extreme cases, acceptance of tempeh as a protein. Get all that shit out of your system. Cut bangs, french your cousin, hell, take up journaling. Then set that puppy (snake) free at a playground, take a shower, and eat a steak.

By twenty years old, we are as we will be. The task left is to name what.

To that end, I offer the following quiz as a gentle exercise in self discovery and reflection. Honesty is key. Refrain from reinvention and simply recognize.

Winchester Mystery Mansion