Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Maybe my real name is "Tries too hard to be funny." Like an Indian or something.

I had the same dream two nights in a row that I had a baby. His name was Potter and he was born with 17 teeth. He liked to sing songs about dinosaurs and eat short ribs. I was pissed about his name because I didn't even get to choose it. After he was born I left the hospital to go get some Indian food so the nurse let her idiot man-child name my baby and he named him after Harry fucking Potter.

It is a fact, that in my family, who or what you are named after will determine your personality. I was named after some depressing, hippie, anti-war song called "Come Away Melinda" by Uriah Heep. It is pretty much the most depressing song of all time. Look at some of the lyrics:
Daddy, daddy, come and look
See what I have found
A little ways away from here
While digging in the ground

Come away melinda
Come in and close the door
Its nothing, just a picture-book
They had before the war

Daddy, daddy, come and see
Daddy, come and look
Why, theres four or five
Little melinda girls
Inside my picture book

Come away melinda
Come in and close the door
There were lots of little girls like you
Before they had the war

Oh daddy, daddy, come and see
Daddy, hurry do
Why, theres someone
In a pretty dress
Shes all grown up like you
Wont you tell me why

Come away melinda
Come in and close the door
That someone is your mummy
You had before the war

Jesus Christ, Parents! What kind of fucked up message is that supposed to send a five year old when you tell her she was named after this song? I can only guess that you wanted me to grow up completely neurotic and believing that the Apocalypse was always around the corner. Then you give me the middle name Lemish which is just a crazy made up name. So your secondary aspiration for me, after your desire for me to be one of those assholes on the corner with an "End of Times" board around my neck, must have been for me to be slightly crazy with little to no grasp on reality. What were you hoping for? A telephone psychic? Thanks douchebags.

My siblings are no different. I named my sister Allison, who was born when I was 4, after the Lewis Carrol story "Alice In Wonderland" which in my mind was called "Allison Wonderland" about a girl named Allison Wonderland. My parents were very close to actually giving her the middle name 'Wonderland', and let's be honest, they had the capability to do that (Lemish, assholes.) My sister has peculiar ambitions, the most recent of which is to move to Peru and live in a tree. This is obviously the result of being named after a character conceived in a drug-induced haze. Oh, and good job parents for letting your 4 year old name your child. She came this close to being named Rainbow Brite.

My brothers faced a similar fate. The older of the two, Keith Richard, was named after Keith Richards.























Awesome. My brother, unsurprisingly; is also a fan of the drink.

The youngest brother, Dylan, was named after Dylan from Beverly Hills 90210. Again this came from my parent's brilliant judgement to let the kids pick the name for the new baby. I was 12. The names came down to Zack (Morris) and Dylan (McKay.) My 17 year old brother is now a little Casanova. I guess compared to the rest of us, a crazed neurotic, a psychedelic hippie tree-hugger, and someone whose blood could hold a flame, being a popular kid who all the girls like isn't the worst possible outcome. But he has to live with the fact that he was named after a lame tv star whose biggest role since was a small part in an episode of "Biker Mice from Mars" an animated show about.... biker mice... from Mars....

My point in all of this is that I can't have a kid named Potter. The kid would grow up to be some little weirdo waving his "wand" at people. Unfortunately, because I am neurotic and a little bit crazy I now must name my future child Potter because my dream demands it to be so. The little bastard will probably also be born with 17 teeth just to fuck with me. So when you see me in a few years, toting around some little 17-toothed freak looking for a good place to eat short ribs, don't give me any shit; it wasn't my decision.














1 comment:

Don't call me Kat said...

I... I... I don't even know where to start.

It's a good thing you never heard Puff the Magic Dragon. I know a Puff, and let's just say he's frolicked in the autumn mist a few too many times.