As it stands, I have two choices: I can either embrace this “woe is me” attitude and ride the self-pity train to nowhere, or I can take the Billiken by the horns and just let the tarot cards fall where they may.

There’s a certain type of student you may be familiar with. This student has had their degree program planned out since freshman year, met with their advisers four times a month and heads over to Career Services to get a jump-start on their portfolios.

Maybe you have lived with this person. Maybe you are this person.

But I am not this person.

As a 20-year-old communication major working at a movie theater during the summer, I sometimes feel just a little distraught that I’m still living without a real life plan.

At age 19, it was cute to answer the question, “What do you want to do with that degree?” with a shrug and a smile. It’s still impressive to most people when a teenager manages to get dressed properly. At age 20, though, you might as well brand “HOPELESS” on your forehead.

So when my friend called last month and suggested that we find a psychic in my hometown of Dallas on a lark, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little intrigued. After all, wouldn’t life be much simpler if a psychic just told me what I would be doing five years down the road?

It would certainly save me the trouble of having to make an actual decision.

I’m not usually one to put much stock in what a psychic has to say, but I’d like to think I went in with an open mind. One palm reading and one tarot card reading later, not to mention $35 poorer, here is what I know:

-The musical talents I do not have will lead me to a career in producing.

-The long line of twins that does not run in my family will continue with me.

-The long, troubled relationship I am not currently involved in will eventually work out for the better.

The only real information I managed to glean from the outing is that I’m in the wrong business.

Psychics can make decent money. Either that, or someone parked their red BMW in the driveway of the wrong house.

(Oh, and I learned that the psychic’s house once served as a plant nursery. Hard hitting stuff, I know.)

Where does that leave me? It leaves me pretty much in the same place I was before: up the creek without the proverbial paddle.

The question remains: Where do I go from here?

Do I throw some cheese and bread in a bundle, tie it to a stick and head off into the sunset, as part of the new generation of hobos sure to sprout from the recent downturn in the U.S. economy?

Do I finaly give in and call up one of those trade schools that advertise on TV all afternoon? After all, I could be a part of the growing field of court reporting-in only three to six months.

I realize that I’m far too young for an existential crisis. When I spend my time so worried about the future, I forget to enjoy the present.

So I guess what I’m saying is that maybe it’s OK for me to be aimless right now, to worry about today and deal with the future when it comes.

For the first time, maybe putting it off until tomorrow is the best thing to do.

Will Holston is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. His poor typing speed makes a career in court reporting unlikely.