Once upon a time, I had the bright idea of heading to university. I’d finished college, done the gap year thing and was still happily living at my mums, and I figured that was what I was supposed to do next, wasn’t it? But, three full years later, an entirely different degree to what I started nearly finished and with the awkward mid-year graduation staring me in the face, I’m having the biggest panic of my life.
What the FUCK do I do now?
Well, firstly I’d quite like to run of to South America and live on a beach for the next ten years.
But after that, I’d probably have to get a real job, and (I know we all joke about, but maybe it’s true?) who’s going to employ the Bachelor of Arts holder that is me?
Fortunately, I have to vaguely practical major of Journalism to focus on so I’ve spent the last year of my degree frantically trying to gain whatever ‘real-word’ experience I can. I’ve taken up blogging, tweeting, the joys of Instagram and pretty much everything in-between purely for the purpose of saying I have a proficiency in social media to prospective employers (bullshit, I know). I also enrolled in Professional Placement as an overload subject, purely for the two weeks practical experience it would give me (yes, I know that is actually what the unit is for). I even decided it would be clever to buy myself a shiny new paparazzi camera so I could learn some photography skills (skills which every other person my age has).
But finally, my moment came. A friend of mine announced that he was going to launch a magazine, and, finally, after talking about it for what seemed like forever, he actually did. And this was when I realised: I like magazines. Magazines. Are. Excellent. They are cute and cuddly and have all sorts of weird types and, even more importantly, do not involve my having to look or sound cheerful when it’s cold and there’s a civil war going on (like real journalism might require).
So, one useful and generous contact in the local industry later and I feel like I might actually have some idea of what to do after the awkward mid-year graduation. I could even have something slightly believable to tell all my parents friends and other erroneous relatives when they ask me what I’m going to do next’. Winning all round I guess.
