Once upon a time, I was going to be an actress, singer and dancer. I would never weigh more than a delicate 125 pounds, and my modeling career would only be matched by my success as a writer.

But then reality, like puberty, set in. And there was no going back.

Eventually, I came to terms with the fact that my singing voice is a strange mixture of Christina Aguilera in The Mickey Mouse Club and a chain-smoking hooker … not so great.

My dancing skills are similar to a freshman who snuck into a party and got tanked off of a power hour with non-alcoholic beer.

And my acting career peaked when I fell through the stage in high school during a monologue. It was intentional though, I swear.

So basically I was left with writing.

Oy vey.

As if the world didn’t have enough brooding, self-righteous literary snobs to fill its pages with grandiose descriptions, succinct verbs and moving passages of wit and emotions.

Also, I’ll never get a job. Or at least I’ll never get one that pays. The chances of making mad bank in journalism or in some sort of literary career are slim. I really hope my roommate that’s an accounting major likes living with me, because ten years from now I’ll probably be living above her garage and paying my rent in quarters.

Sure, I might not have the fancy things in life like vacations, jewelry or heat. I might be eating Ramen noodles for dinner every night while watching the news on a black-and-white TV set, but guess what?

I’ll still have my soul.

You business majors with your suits and brief cases and salaries. You future doctors and lawyers might be able to take two weeks off each summer to go to your different houses on your different islands.

But you’ll also spend the next ten years cooped up in a cubicle the size of my closet crunching numbers or calling clients until somebody notices that they’ve been paying you for awhile and they should probably give you a promotion.

I, however, will fight the boss man. Call me crazy, but I’d like to think that while I’m still young I can hold on to some shred of idealism.

After all, I’ve grown so much from the days when I thought that walking the red carpet was the only way to survive.

So until the financial hassles wear my soul down, I will retain the same principles of a pissed-off seventh grader who just discovered Converse shoes and Indie music and I’ll bask in the glamour of being a starving artist.