I’m going to let you in on a secret of mine, a secret that has effected shock, pity, sympathy, and/or patronization when shared with random Columbians I’ve talked with: I don’t have an internship lined up for this summer. Oh, the horror.
I guess popular belief dictates I’ll be living in a cardboard box on the corner of 114th and Amsterdam for the majority of my post-graduate life. That, or my parents’ basement. Not sure which is worse.
Maybe it means I’ll embody the stereotype of "Ivy-leagued and unemployed" graduate.
