Roughly four years ago, I promised my parents I would be a millionaire by the time I was 18 years old.
That was a silly, silly promise to make.
Consider the cases of two of my best friends from high school in comparison to my own.
One went on the syndicated version of "Who Wants to be a Millionaire," won $60,000 and was subsequently recruited by an Abercrombie & Fitch model scout who "happened to be watching."
Another bought Google stock at $125, which, at its well-published high, traded at $475.11.
In a hyphenated word: Cha-ching.
I, on the other hand, bought Sirius Radio at $7.20 per share, assuming that all the skeevozies of America would come out of the woodwork to buy chic little Sirius radios and tune into three-way deaf midget wooden-leg porn.
Instead, it turns out that those same skeevozies figured out how to record Howie and get their midget porn for free.
And, instead of winning money on a game show or being recruited by modeling agencies, I worked for a measly two weeks last summer and then spent all of my money on paella and French wine.
In any case, according to my mom, I can forget about the modeling career altogether.
"You think you're a catch? Well I've got news for you. You're pretty ugly," Mom told me over winter break.
So instead of relying on useless knowledge, great looks or picking stocks, I decided to attend the Internship Fair last week.
Having gotten into the rhythm of the fair and having given my résumé to a few employers, I thought I would give some of the more intimidating-looking tables a try.
I walked straight up to the Wachovia booth and gave my firm handshake and warm (but not TOO warm) smile. Introductions followed.
Then things went south in a hurry.
"So, um, what kinds of positions are you offering in New York?" I asked.
"Oh. None. All of our positions are in Raleigh."
Alarms go off, "DANGER, DANGER, THEY KNOW YOU DIDN'T DO ANY RESEARCH ON WACHOVIA. PULL OUT, PULL OUT."
"Oh, Raleigh. Gee, well that's great. And the positions are all in a specific department? Uh, a specific, um, place?"
(Understand that I am not in any way making up this conversation.)
"Well, actually they're all in risk management."
Alarms again, "DANGER, DANGER, WHAT IN GOD'S NAME IS RISK MANAGEMENT? JUST NOD AND WALK AWAY. NOD AND WALK AWAY."
"Ah, of course, risk management, where you ... "
"Manage risk."
"Right."
"Yes."
"I write columns for the newspaper once every other week."
"Of course you do. Run along now."
The last part didn't happen, but rest assured, it could have.
I was pretty down after the Internship Fair, but perked up a bit when I discovered an e-mail from the friendly folks at UCS in my inbox announcing a "Careers in the Arts Forum" on Thursday night.
"Forum" instead of "fair."
Discussion instead of interrogation.
Scarves instead of ties.
Surely, for an aspiring writer such as myself, with a mind full of creative images and ideas (and puns -- lots of puns) waiting to be unleashed upon the world, the "Careers in the Arts" fair would give me hope.
Instead, I got an earful of how a masters degree is "Well, pretty much required," these days, and that an entry-level position as a specialist in Georgian period silver is a fantastic way to get into the museum business.
Georgian period silver?
I pictured myself unpacking crates of priceless spoons, saying something like "What fantastic pieces," and then breaking down to weep at my pathetic existence.
Luckily, because it was an arts career fair, there was naturally wine.
Which allowed me to indulge in my drinking problem to forget about my career/financial problems.
Instead of networking and building a solid base of interesting and well-connected professionals to establish a foothold in the door of opportunity and market the skills provided by my education, I got drunk.
"Yeah, I don't even have a savings account," I later told my roommate.
"Are you kidding?"
"No. I mean, what do I need interest for? I'm just going to spend my money anyway."
"Who ARE you?" he asked.
Millionaire by 18 years old?
I think I even went so far as to suggest that I would own a helicopter.
I can certainly say I own many things.
I own a lot of books, many striped collared shirts, a Nalgene (which I will continue to drink out of, cancer be damned), a desk lamp, a printer and four pairs of shoes.
I believe I can claim tenuous ownership of a sense of selfhood.
But I do not own a helicopter.
I will never own a helicopter.
How was I going to make sums of money fabulous enough to own a helicopter by the time I was 18 years old?
Clearly, I was going to write a novel.
Yes, writing a novel by the tender age of 18 was going to propel me to fame, fortune, a house on the Riviera, beautiful women falling all over me and swooning at my public readings and yes, a whirly bird of my very own.
Forget that I had never written anything longer than six pages at that stage in my life. Forget that novels generally take three years for the most careful writers to craft. Forget that, at least according to "Clear and Present Danger," your run-of-the-mill helicopter costs $2 million.
Forget even that, at 16 years old, my most dramatic life experience was getting acne and that as a result my fiction would probably be, I don't know, horrendously boring.
Helicopter.
Instead, I had about four glasses of wine and some cheddar cheese at the "Careers in the Arts Forum."
Lucky for me, I could commiserate with fellow Life columnist and arguably the most-loved newspaperman at the University (three more months Eric Cunningham, then you're THROUGH).
Having thought over our conversation, I feel confident that I just miscalculated the timeline and source of my wealth acquisition.
The real money is obviously in the newspaper world.
Careerless, helicopterless, verging on penniless, I have hope for the future. I'm pretty confident I'll be tooling around in the skies by the time I'm 25.
A-J's column runs bi-weekly on Tuesdays. He can be reached at aronstein@cavalierdaily.com.
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