Biryani and Woe

Here comes a cliche: I'm feeling extremely depressed today.
Three things are contributing to my depression: first, I've no idea what I'll do if I don't get into the M.F.A. program and I'm feeling fairly certain that I won't get in; second, I'm making biryani right now and I cooked the rice too long before starting to cook it with the chicken; and third, tomorrow is my 24th birthday.
My application packet to the MFA program was far from inspirational. Instead of writing one piece that was 25 pages long, I submitted three separate writings. Not only were they separate, but they weren't even in the same genre! I can't stick to one genre though; I love them all. I think it's because I've been playing percussion for most of my life. As a percussionist, you have to learn to master hundreds of percussive instruments; usually people specialize in one instrument, but a true percussionist is master of as many as he can learn. I feel the same way with writing. But even with that in mind, the pieces still needed at least a few more weeks of revisions before they could even be close to perfect. I guess I could apply to a different graduate program, but I wasn't even sure that I wanted to apply to the M.F.A. Honestly, I feel stagnant, like I'm entirely worthless.
The biryani mistake makes me want to bash a window with a bag of hair. I'm not actually sure if that's possible, but it's the least violent way of committing violence that I can think of. The problem with biryani is that you've got to cook the rice so that it's half-way done before you start cooking it with the chicken. Biryani requires that the chicken be cooked underneath the rice so that the rice absorbs the flavor of the chicken and its marinade. Since I cooked the rice a little bit too long, I fear that it will be mushy. Biryani is one of my favorite foods, but when it's not cooked right, it ruins the entire experience. Kind of ridiculous that I'm so disappointed about how my food will turn out, but I love (good) food. And I'm firmly of the belief that good cooking can only be the product of my own hands; these hands, unfortunately, are growing a bit more gnarled with age.
Tomorrow I turn 24. Who wouldn't be depressed to be reminded of the most traumatic experience of their life? Birth ruins us. Before we open our eyes, we are completely ignorant to the suffering of this world and as a result are better than happy. The more I learn, the more cynical and depressed I get. I don't know shit and I'm already a terribly unhappy person; I can't imagine how hopeless I'll be after even another half decade. It's not that I'm getting old that gets me down--I'm still a kid. I think what bothers me is that I'm getting older and have nothing at all to show for it. I still live in Oklahoma, I work for my mom's newspaper, I've never published anything but my 60 or so crappy movie reviews, and I feel as though I've slacked off through at least 40% of my education. Bah humbug.