When I heard that then-New York State Governor Eliot Spitzer had spent $4,300 on a 105 pound, 5’5” brunette “escort,” my first thought was, “I wonder how much she pulls in annually.”

Second thought: “If I had David Paterson’s eyesight, I could tolerate Eliot Spitzer as a client. I’d get me to Albany and make a killing.” Alas, my vision is excellent. There dies my dream.

What? Are you scandalized? You shouldn’t be. Know this, Arts and Sciences Career Services: it was you who drove me to this.

The Hotelies and ILR-ies and Engineers have career fairs and networking events. Arts and Science students have “information sessions” where people who already have jobs — but aren’t in any position to offer you one — talk about how super great their job really is, and what dumb luck it was for them to get it.

Hotelies and ILR-ies get placed in swanky paid internships at seaside resorts and multinational corporations. I see them in their “biz caszh” getups (yes, that’s “business casual” for you comp lit majors out there), striding from interview to interview, yelling into their headsets that sure, PepsiCo is great but Google’s work environment is unbeatable. From Arts and Sciences I get a pat on the head and an entreaty to “follow my heart.” Well guess what? My heart is a friggin’ idiot. So here I am with my career adviser-approved “stellar” resume and “solid” cover letters, and a stack of skinny envelopes chock full of phrases like “credentials are impressive, but,” “record number of applicants,” “best of luck in your search.”

Shake off that sugar coating and here’s what those letters actually say: “You are a waste of tuition. Scurry back to the sewer of mediocrity from whence you came, peasant.”

I’d been kicked in the self-esteem one time too many. In my hour of need, I turned to the person in my life who always gives good advice and has my best interest at heart: Internet.

While trolling Internet for the meaning of life — a job — I came across a column by Charlotte Allen, published on March 2 in The Washington Post called, “Women vs. Women.” Women, wrote Allen, have better memory and language skills, but poorer “visuospatial” and math skills compared to men. Hm.

I thought of the things I fear most: Rubik’s Cubes, splitting bills, maps, and very small dogs. Her claim seemed reasonable. Perhaps she could tell me what to do with the skills I do possess. I read on:

“...I don’t understand why more women don’t relax, enjoy the innate abilities most of us possess ... and revel in the things most important to life at which nearly all of us excel: tenderness toward children and men and the weak and the ability to make a house a home.”

Woah woah woah. Listen, honey. Just because I got lost on the way back from Wegman’s does not mean that all I’m fit for is baby-cooing and ego-boosting. On the contrary, I get shot Children of The Corn-esque glares by anyone under 12, and spend much of my free time thinking of creative ways to make men and “the weak” feel bad about themselves. I call them “pick-off lines.” And as far as making a “house” a “home” goes, all I will say is that Easy Mac is not as easy as they would have you believe.

Internet was not encouraging, so I downgraded to my mom. After I posed the career-path question for a third time and stomped on the floor, she glanced up from her smutty romance novel: “I think you’d make a good socialite wife. Is that barbecue sauce on your forehead?”

My options dwindling, I got back to basics and dug up the results from my high school career aptitude test: “You have no respect for authority and dislike working with others. Possible careers include: Sanitation worker. Film director. Troll.” Welly, well, well.

So, two people that read my column, I say to you: If you ever want to see me in print again, e-mail everything I’ve ever written to everyone you know. If you don't, why the hell did you read this far? So you can write a grumpy letter, I bet. Well grumpy letter-writer, if I go out of print, you'll have nothing to write about and will be forced into other, less worthy pursuits, like popping balloon animals or stealing Christmas. And I'll have to move to Albany.