Many of us in adolescence struggle through identity crises of sorts. Exactly what does one what to do with one's life that will make a difference in the world? I've deciding against whatever my distinction is having anything to do with Casey Anthony. New laws may be enacted as a result of choices made by her, but the new laws or causes won't be championed by me. I'm so over Casey Anthony that if she showed up on my doorstep asking for a package of microwave popcorn, I might conceviably give it to her, but I would tell he to go next door or across the street to microwave it.
My latest idea is that perhaps I should become a surrogate mother - a rented womb, so to speak. My parents, predictably, think this is a bad idea, or even worse than a bad idea. This, alone, makes the concept worth consideration at the very least. I haven't seen such a reaction from my parents since the very first time I announced I was contemplating joining a polygamous cult. My parents now no longer even bat an eye when I bring up the possibility of signing on with the polygs. It's time to move on to bigger and better ideas. Even my threat of becoming a nun no longer gets a significant reaction from my parents.
I could rent out my uterus only to the rich and famous, most of whom insist upon the surrogate signing multiple clauses of confidentiality. Clauses, schmlauses. Clauses, in my opinion, are drafted to be broken,or at least challenged. Then again, I could look for people notable in their respectable fields who are not necessarily Hollywood starlets. Or I could just randomly produce babies out of wedlock and give them to deserving couples. I could be, you know, a slut.
I'm sure this will make my parents the most proud of all. Think of all those childless couples longing for at least one baby to call their own, and think of how proud my parents would be to have me strutting my stuff in various states of gestation all around whatever location in which they reside. For the sheer mystery of it all, I could even claim immaculate conception.
When my brother and I were very tiny, as in probably by the time we were two years of age, my mom was constantly preaching the value of education to us, brainwashing us with the idea that we would go to college before we really had much of an idea of what college even was. My brother changed his desired occupation about once every three hours back in those days. His future job of choice was usually something really high-brow. I can remember when he wanted to be a carney for a few hours. Then he wanted to be a beer taster. Once when it was a clown he wanted to become, he cut off my mother before she could even issue her caveat, with, "I know, Mommy. I have to be an educated clown." So I'll add my concession to my mom: I know, Mommy. I have to be an educated slut.
My life is an unpainted canvas. I can do almost anything I choose to do. Perhaps making babies as a career, or at least as a serious avocation, should be my mission in life. Then again, I could raise lizards instead. These times of life-altering decisions get to the core of one's very soul. A weaker (and more physically mature) female would probably already have gotten pregnant just to deal with the stress of indecision.