As we approach the end of days, aka graduation, many of us are questioning our places in the world. Because we can't all be on Naked News, here are some alternate career paths in the event that this journalism thing doesn't pan out:

1) Go into PR. Although competition may be fierce, since the kids sitting beside, in front of, and two rows behind you are all thinking the same thing.

2) Run for Prime Minister. You've got the starving writer demographic. Keep in mind that this option can't be implemented straightaway, so manage your time accordingly. Hire a life coach or a psychic; ask them about the success probability of your political aspirations if you get a funny haircut.

3) Teach ESL abroad. Or teach high school English, and impress the ageless wisdom of the hamburger essay upon young minds. It should be noted, however, that the chances of running into former classmates while gallivanting about Japan are significantly less than the chances of meeting former classmates while conducting parent-teacher interviews and having to tell them their child loses at life.

4) Practise your calligraphy skills as a scribe in a medieval monastery. Where else can you put that eye for painstakingly copyedited detail to good use?

5) Write Harlequin romances. There are enough trashy novels featuring cowboys and pirates; someone needs to start the Devastatingly Handsome Journalist franchise.

6) Form a rock band called The Washed-Up J-Skool Grads.

7) Create a reality show about yourself and a bunch of other washed-up j-school grads. You can call it Survivor: Intern Island and it will run for three depressing seasons before it's cancelled and you pitch The Newlylaidoff to the network. In other news, a real former intern dishes on I'm From Rolling Stone.

8) Open a coffeehouse. After four years of functioning on caffeine, you should know your stuff. In your spare time, take up curling. You know you want to.

9) Design journalist action figures.

10) Become a literary hoax. First, write a book about your harrowing experiences in journalism school, like the time in first year when you were jailed for assaulting paparazzi in a fit of moral outrage, and how in third year you profiled a Mafia don and he offered you a free hit. Then get your boyfriend's half-sister's newspaper delivery boy to pretend to be you in public, before The Smoking Gun busts you and Oprah chastises you on national television. Here is the somewhat related confession of a teenage fabulist to make you feel better about yourself. You got this far without dropping out, so congrats.