All in the Name

I'd like to think that I do everything for a reason.

That is, of course, what I'd LIKE to think. If you can think of a single reason why I named my car "Dick Turpin", you'd have one more than I do. I do actively make certain decisions for a reason though, but most of them are to counteract other decisions I made without a reason (Lost you yet?).

Once such example: my facial hair. No, I did not wake up one day and say "I've already grown my head-hair out, might as well", but it did kind of have something to do with "the mane".

But this all started before I had hair. Imagine yourself in a hospital room in Fairfax, Virginia. If you need help with that, just imagine a Hawaiian beach at low tide. That's not what a hospital room in Fairfax looks like, but as the scene doesn't entirely matter, it'll do.

There are two British people in the room (or beach, as you may have chosen to imagine). They had just beheld the birth of their only son. They wanted to give him a British-y name and had decided that "Winston Churchill Smith" and "Queen Elizabeth II Smith" were off the table, as they wanted to spare their son from the fists and other blunt objects of his future high school peers.

The woman was from Wales, and decided that she wanted a Welsh name for her son. She didn't want to give him "Owen", because some woman she knew that she didn't particularly like had already given her son that name. She didn't want to show up in a public place with a baby with the same name as someone else's baby. One of them would have to go home and change babies, and that just wasn't convenient.

So they decided on Morgan. Before I go on, let me just say that I love my name. It's not an overdone, biblical name (which is very fortunate considering what I turned out thinking about the Bible) and I can go into a room and have a different name than anyone else standing (or sitting, I don't judge) in it.

Now, the name Morgan is fine and dandy for a guy in Wales, but in America, it hits some hitches. A.) I'm not black, 2.) I'm not an actor, III.) My voice cannot sound comforting and reassuring no matter what it's saying, and Quatre.) All of the Above (a.k.a. Morgan Freeman).

Because my name is what would be considered a girl's name, and I decided to grow my hair out because "why the fuck not?", I've had to find some way to compensate for the fact that from behind or clean shaven, I look like a girl. A pregnant girl. So I grew out the scruff. That's the story behind that.

Because of the feminine persuasion of my name, I've started to wonder if I should start going by my middle name. My middle name is one that I could take to great new heights. I'm fairly certain that the name hasn't been used in the world since The Princess Bride, but if I were to go by Inigo Smith, I'm fairly certain the raw sexuality of it in addition to some sort of reference to a six fingered man and paternal revenge would make me win at life.

I'd have to beat the girls off with sticks. Not because of my greatly increased sex appeal, though. The introduction of a person named Inigo in 21st century society would upset the forces of life and death, turning everyone in the world into carnivorous zombies hungry for flesh. I would literally have to beat Femme-Zombies off with sticks and various other blunt instruments.

Just something to ponder.

It's all for you, Damien


BONUS ENTRY! LUCKY YOU!

Have you ever had a dream that you wake up from, quickly realize that everything in that dream never happened, and then just sit up in your bed and say "Fuck"?

I did this very thing on Saturday morning.

So my dream starts off with me talking to my mom and my hockey coach, who have never met in real life. Not even sure they've seen each other, or know the other exists for that matter, but whatever. They were talking to me about prom, like you do.

Then my mom mentions, in a kind of "oh by the way" kind of way, that she knows Scarlett Johansson and thinks we should go to prom together. I don't remember what she said after that, most likely because I don't tend to hear much when my jaw is cemented to the floor, but lo and behold, I went to prom with Scarlett Johansson.

I somehow got from what looked like the kitchen in my old house where Plano prom was being held to a deformed ice rink, where I was playing hockey.

But that's not the point. I had a dream that I went to prom with Scarlett Johansson.

I then woke up.

Fuck.