Not that I didn't intend to go to graduate school. I planned to relocate to a new campus in the fall, where I would continue to study obscure Russian poetry, subsist on caffeine and coffee shop slop, and ignore mental and physical health. Even though my thesis was bound, my mailbox passed on to some innocent freshman who hadn't yet cracked the cover of the Iliad, and my fall tuition bill replaced by a donation request, I didn't feel that a way of life was coming to an end. I prepared myself for another five years of the good life.
However, at the last minute, I decided to forego graduate school and pursue the Real World. After four years at Reed, I knew a lot about linguistic theory and literary criticism and very little about how I might make a living and how it would feel to have finished work at five o'clock, instead of just starting to think about beginning it. And I was excited at the prospect of venturing off the Reed campus and discovering, perhaps, a more sane locale.