And for you fifth-year seniors (who obviously either screwed up or are pursuing some special business major), go study you big slacker and quit reading ranting editorials.

Anyway, way back in the fall of your senior year, do you remember how many times you were asked, "So, where are you going to college?" Probably just the sound of those words makes you internally cringe. Personally, by December of that senior year, I had mastered the technique of pausing dramatically to answer their question and then suddenly convulsing as if my body had been seized by aliens that eat you from the inside out, and would wail and gurgle and cry out in pain until the asker of the dreaded question had run away and warned all other people within a three-mile radius that I was not to be spoken to regarding college choice.

Aside from the seething annoyance that rose up in me every time that question was asked, I also was dealing with an intensely jealous hatred for all those nerd-bucket people who had applied early decision.

I wanted to pull the hood of their newly acquired, thick, gray collegiate sweatshirt over their head and tie the strings so tight that they would be completely incapable of uttering the words "Oh! I am so glad I am not still wondering like you!" ever again.

Perhaps more exciting to me than finally deciding where I was going to go to school (and overnight Fed-Exing my paperwork to dear ol' Winston Salem), was the knowledge that I would never have to endure such a drudgery of frustration ever again.

I was mistaken.

It has been formally decreed (by me, but surely to soon be corroborated by you) that the fall of your sophomore year is not just eerily reminiscent of that hellish high school fall, but is in fact far, far worse.

The question that rings like the death knell inside my head is now, "So what is your major?" My response technique is no longer the feigned alien abduction (it was getting a little too hard to really be passionate about it after the 7,834th performance).

Instead, I answer with a sarcastic little half-laugh like this, "Heh," followed by a prompt change of subject. Seems cavalier and laid-back enough, right? Yup. The only problem is the real me is anything but laid back about this. "What is my major? As in, what the hell am I going to do with these four years? I don't know, why don't you take a look at the centuries-long list of divisionals I have left and try to put together a major out of that? How am I supposed to know what I want to major in?"

Oh, but wait! There are those people who knew what they wanted to major in since the day they walked onto this campus, perhaps even before.

Oh yes, the little loathe-able early decision kids have been re-manifested into the people who knew exactly what divisionals to take in order to start checking off major and minor requirements during their first semester. They actually have an idea what they want to do for a career!

Are you not seeing the problem here? I am still stressing over the fact that my freshman adviser doesn't appear qualified to tell me where the nearest bathroom is to his office, let alone help me devise a plan for my academic career.

However, by some stroke of divine inspiration (or as some might call it, an online horoscope that seemed to be referring to something having to do with science) I have chosen my major to be Political Science (Bio? Chem? Computer? Yeah right. Those sciences get the good ol' "Heh"). Way to go me. I am on my way to my future.

Oh wait, did I fail to mention that as a sophomore you can't actually get into any of the classes in your recently declared major?

So, you will spend round one of registration frantically looking for whatever 8 a.m. with Professor Satan class you can get in your area of interest, and by the time you get to round two, you will try to sign up for remaining divisionals only to find that freshmen got there first.

Or, if you are really lucky, like me, as the only sophomore in a Worrell House full of blissfully declared juniors, you can watch as they pre-register for all their major classes, while your coveted classes fill up like a frat-party dance floor whenever "Like A Prayer" comes on.

Sophomores, I know you are feeling my pain. Juniors and seniors, I know you remember this feeling far too well. Fifth-years, why in God's name are you still reading this? And as for you freshmen, you have been forewarned.

Jennifer Thompson is a sophomore studying abroad at the university's Worrell House in London this semester.