I remember my last December spent in Rye. Everyday, a thick sheet as white as milk blanketed the high school parking lot. And everyday, the senior hallway was as bare of students as the trees were of leaves. The teachers called it senioritis. We called it a well-deserved year off. But as much as slacking was the cool thing to do at the time, there was one dreaded but important duty required of us: college applications.
Christmas was a fortnight away and, while Santa and his elves were rushing to finish their latest toys, I spent my days burning random pedestrians with a flamethrower in Grand Theft Auto 3. In school I practiced my secret agent skills to avoid my stalking guidance counselor, Mr. L. But one day I failed and he caught me. As his towering body loomed above me, he reminded me that I had only ten days left to hand in my applications, otherwise I would not go to college, would never get a job, never get married, and would die a piss-poor lonely man.