Kathlyn Hotynski

No, I don’t know what I want to “be” when I “grow up.” I’ve heard it all before.

And I know what you are going to be: a teacher, doctor, pharmacist, business man, and so on. Don’t care. Get back to me in 20 years. For now I’ll stick to my guns: saying “I don’t know.”

Why is that so perplexing, so hard to comprehend? Accepting this relatively simple statement seems to be up there with dating two girls at once on the difficulty scale. Yes, I admit, I’ve tried the “double date,” and I was doing well until Facebook came along with its “relationship status.” Long story short – I was busted.

But it is safe to assume that with a lower technological society I could be a successful polygamist. That wouldn’t be so wrong. I would consider having multiple spouses on the same level as marrying your first cousin (which is legal in Wisconsin, though they are not allowed to have children, thankfully).

All unorthodox marriages aside, I think everyone should just accept my lack of a plan for the future. And I know the perfect way to nudge their stubborn acceptance along.

This Christmas I asked my loving parents for the most useful gift I could come up with – a customized T-shirt that reads, “Creative Writing,” followed by a hostile looking, “I DON’T KNOW.” That way, when an annoying aunt I see once every year asks me what my major is and what I plan on doing with my major, I can simply point to the shirt. This will be especially useful for family gatherings and lame house parties.

And no, when I have nieces and nephews I won’t ask them the standard, trivial questions that I have been asked so many agonizing times. Instead, I’ll think of something fresh and witty.

“So, how many times have you cut class this year? Got your fake ID yet? Pulled any fire alarms?” Because if there is one thing I abhor more than being asked what job I’m going to have, it’s adults that forget what college was like.

Continuing with the topic at hand, last weekend I took a stroll through fabulous Owen Park. The sun was shining, song birds chirped back and forth, the cute little squirrels chased each other. A young couple passed by, holding hands and smiling. Everything was wonderfully euphoric. Except me. This depression occurs bi-annually when registration for classes rolls around.

Some people get excited for registration. This absurd enthusiasm only spurs my agitation. When I am reassured by others that my future is a blank page and I hold the pencil it only upsets me further. What if I write the wrong thing? Is there an eraser? What if I erase so hard the paper rips? By now you’ve probably all figured out what my problem is. Acceptance is the first step, right?

Well, then here it is: I hate responsibility. Furthermore, I’m not afraid to admit that I am the most irresponsible person I know.

You know that guy who walks into class on finals day and says, “Do we have a test?” That’s me. Or the friend that you trust to watch after Sparky when you’re on vacation? And you come home to a rank house and a doggie funeral? Me again. This irresponsibility thing has become quite a problem for me.

Seriously, even the imbecile squirrels in the park are on top of their nut-collecting responsibilities.

So, I have decided to catch onto the latest trend and declare my negative characteristic a disease. Let’s call it Peter Gibbons syndrome.

Now I can get prescribed some bogus medication, get financial help with tuition, and sleep in late. Who’s gonna stop me? I’ll just drop the P.G. syndrome bomb on them, then they’ll feel sorry they tried to reprimand me. And, of course, best of all is in regards to my future. I don’t have to answer to anyone. Most likely I’ll keep the shirt, except now people will have to be content with my three favorite words.

Liedl is a junior creative writing major and columnist for The Spectator.