Perhaps the reason why graduation is in May is to lull you into a temporary state of mind that tells you everything will work out just fine.

The world seems gentle right now, the desert is abloom and the rays of the Tucson sun aren’t entirely breaking your spirit.

However, for those of us who have to don the cap and gown mid-May, the relaxed temperament of the spring is replaced by the frantic preparation of a long and cold winter.

It’s last call in this four- or, in some cases, five-year party and the job search is on.

Sometimes I stop myself and think, ‘wait a minute, I’m Asian. Shouldn’t I be preparing for med school?’

But no, ambition stops at the undergraduate level, and I’m settling for a bachelor’s degree in lieu of the strategy of picking up more degrees just to postpone paying off student loans.

As the only skill I’ve acquired in college is the ability to live on Ramen without developing scurvy, I figure it will be a tough job market.

Hence this letter beseeching the only person who can help me in my dire need.

And yes, I am talking about Oprah Winfrey.

Oh, Oprah. I know that you’re probably too busy, what with the book club and trying to figure out the differences between fiction and nonfiction and schmoozing with your celebrity friends, but please hear my plea.

Considering that your net worth is a little over $1 billion, what I’m asking for is a mere pittance, probably 1/4 of your shoe budget or the monthly allowance that you give Stedman.

I estimate that $30,000, more or less, will be enough to pay off the Man as well as provide me with a few Gs to survive on while I see what exactly a degree in English and creative writing will get you.

I have it in my mind to become a professional smart ass. I’m currently an amateur smart ass, but I hope to one day have this as my chosen career, complete with a salary and, God willing, a dental insurance plan.

Until then, I rely on the kindness and beneficence of the first lady of daytime talk show television.

Or if the $30,000 is too much, how about sending me something that you own and I can sell it on eBay as a third-degree relic of your holiness?

I don’t have a sob story to tell.

I don’t have any self-help books to sell or any advice to offer on the best way to dress so that it looks like you’ve lost 10 pounds.

I’m not a celebrity trying to raise money for AIDS orphans, which so conveniently coincides with the release of a new movie that I happen to be in.

I also haven’t shed nearly half of my body weight through a strict macrobiotic diet and a rigorous Pilates/tai chi and Afro-Cuban dance exercise regime despite suffering from borderline personality disorder while simultaneously raising two children on my own after the babies’ daddy ran off with his male secretary.

What I do have to offer is my undying devotion to the cult of Oprah. Your show has been around as long as I’ve been alive. Through the roller-coaster ride that is your current dress size, I’ve been with you.

The advent of your new magazine, creatively titled “”O,”” just gave me more Oprah to look at. Because there you are. On the cover of your own magazine. Again.

I may not be in your target demographic of overworked and under-appreciated suburban housewives, but right now I’m probably about as frustrated as they are, which should count for something.

One day I’ll be a middle-aged soccer mom, and though my quiet life of desperation might get me down, all I will have to do is remember your encouragements spoken from the downtrodden life of a billionaire who can speak from her own very public soap box every day.

In the meantime, though, send money. Please.