Dermatologist
Hi kid, I see by the appointment card you're thinking about a dermatology career. Seems like a growth industry, what with all the boomers becoming senior citizens, but you might want to consider the big picture.
You'll do a hellishly long stint in college, med school and then training in your specialty. The student loan debts will haunt your every moment for the first years of your career. A ridiculous amount of overtime at the clinic where you set up your first practice, coupled with filling it at various clinics on weekends will get you solvent quickly, though.
Unfortunately, the money stress becomes imprinted on your subconscious, and the drive to earn ever more will be your undoing. More and more you supplement your already-successful practice with unnecessary cosmetic procedures. The acne-scarred teenager and the burned pre-schooler sit waiting in an office decorated with posters pushing vanity services, while Mrs. Barrington-Smythe gets yet another botox or collagen injection.
Soon you're suggesting these procedures to everyone you encounter--they're simply too quick and lucrative for you to resist. Many of your clients can't really afford these services, but your ad campaigns panic them into debt in pursuit of eternal youth. Fortunately your toxins keep all expression from their paralyzed facial muscles, and you learn not to notice the desperation in their eyes.
Eventually you become a fixture at the cocktail parties of the elite, and it's at one of these events a dowager whispers the latest breakthrough offered surreptitiously by one of your rivals--a special skin treatment which features the crushed pineal gland of a rare species of South American fresh-water turtle.
You're unable to sleep for several nights afterward as you obssessively research everything you can find out about this illegal treatment. Soon you've discovered a local underworld connection who offers to supply you with the requisite turtle glands for an outrageous price. Your quick calculations prove that you'll be unable to make a significant profit on the illicit procedure, but you fear losing some of your wealthiest regulars, so desperation guides your faustian bargain.
A scant four months later FBI agents, working as part of an international sting operation, arrest you. You refuse to rat out your criminal suppliers, so you're given a hefty fine and sentenced to five years in prison.
Prison terrifies you; it's not just the other inmates you're worried about--you're also convinced the mob will put out a contract on your life to make sure you won't change your mind and snitch. Eventually, though, you manage to make the terror less intense by first bargaining away the assets left after your fine to get the mafia to cancel the contract, and making yourself invaluable to the other inmates through your expert after-care for prison tattoos.
Good behaviour gets you out in three years, but you're broke and with your reputation, no dermatology clinics will hire you, and no reputable physician will refer anyone to you. Eventually you take a job at a free clinic in the worst part of town--your nights consist of stitching up the victims of domestic abuse to the soundtrack of cynical cops unsuccesfully trying to coerce cooperation in pressing charges.
Prison rearranged your priorities, which makes your new life in a modest condo and driving a domestic sedan a little easier to bear. It will a decent life for a year or two until a radical offshoot of PETA discovers your whereabouts and kidnaps you.
They'll kill you slowly, injecting massive doses of botox into various parts of your body. On the bright side, most who attend your funeral will gush about how peaceful you look.
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