It's come to me slowly, a revelation of sorts: I went to the college they promised me. I went to the school of the catalog quote-box, a "hotbed" of aspirant genius. Perhaps it's nostalgia (or epiphany, some four years late?) but it seems now you superstars were everywhere. I watched you running your civil rights rallies, heard your a capella singing, saw your experimental plays--and I always assumed that your passions would somehow become your post-college careers.
Actors, I assumed you'd audition, unrelentingly, until getting a small role, then a bigger, then a big; activists, that you'd travel, teaching English to children, before landing a choice gig at (or starting) an NGO; writers, that you'd get yourselves MFAs you didn't need before wowing Michiko Kakutani with your debut bildungsromans. . .but never that I'd find you all in the law adviser's anteroom. Much less, that I'd be in there with you.
And yet, here we are. Wandering from our LSAT prep course to the McKinsey Q&A to the Teach For America informational, we're looking for something: a paying job, any job. A benefactor.