On the scientific scale of pain, job hunting normally falls somewhere between root canal and dropkicking tiny kittens. In an economy like this one, however, it’s closer to letting an English major perform open-heart surgery on your gaping chest without anesthesia. (And no, English majors, you are not going to qualify for jobs involving open-heart surgery. Try again.)

The prospects for our graduating class are so terrifying that we’ve even heard scattered reports of seniors scouring the Internet in search of more light-hearted diversions, like stories about pandemics or terrorist attacks.

That’s where this column comes in. No, I’m not going to offer you a job nor am I going to provide you with any useful advice that might help you find a job. Instead, I’m going to diagnose the precise level of appropriate anxiety you should be having about your job prospects so that you can self-medicate accordingly.

One margarita: You already have a job. You’re only reading this column because you wanted to hear more about dropkicking kittens. Either that or you’re so Type A that you continue to gather career advice obsessively despite signing an offer six months ago, in which case you should drink more because you obviously need help learning to relax. The rest of you are fine, but you still get a drink because, well, the real world is scary.

Full pitcher of sangria: You don’t have a paying gig yet, but you’ve been preparing for this moment since your first take-your-child-to-work day when you scribbled all over 10 pads’ worth of missed call notices. You know your chosen field; you’ve got 10 interviews lined up, and you’re pretty confident that one day, you too will be fodder for glossy Career Center posters. You should drink to ease the nagging voice in your head that thinks you had a typo in one of your cover letters.

Your own personal handle of vodka: Your resume is still either three pages or three lines long, you have no idea what to do with a B.A. in anthropology and the thought of graduation is starting to give you hives. Drink liberally—just don’t post the pictures on Facebook. You’re unemployable enough already without photographic evidence of your stumbling desperation.

Ten Prozac and a paper bag for hyperventilation: You still think job hunting involves killing strangely named birds. No alcohol for you—you’ve already spent three-quarters of senior year in a drunken near-coma. You’re also a classics major. You should probably just give up now and start applying to grad school. What’s Latin for “you’re screwed”?

Now for the disclaimer: People who rely on Student Life for medical or mental health advice tend to end up jobless and hospitalized. Instead, you should seek a second opinion—if for no other reason than to create more employment opportunities for all the pre-meds.

And one more thing—don’t freeload off of other people’s alcohol. It’s the first step to a lifetime of freeloading off of your parents. And like I said, their basement is scary. Unless, you know, you like fake wood paneling and bright red shag carpet mixed with old disco records. But if that’s the case, you probably have bigger problems to worry about.