I used to think it was weird that your name was just Freddy. Who names their kid just Freddy? It’s cool though. Let me get this off my chest: I’ve always hated nicknames. Always, with one exception–Chino; it was suitable. Freddy just sounds like a nickname.
It kind of bothered me at first. I was trying to find a way to get an honest answer that it wasn’t your full name, which is ironic because that wouldn’t have been honest. I hate being called Meg. I also hated that my brother-in-law’s name is Alex. Just Alex; what the fuck? Did parents go from hippy-dippy names like Flower or Sunshine or what-have-you to shortened and less interesting names like Alex? Why not Alexander?
I have a dog named Ugly Butt; I find that interesting. I had a friend in high school named Breezy Summer Bumpus; that name is ridiculous but, at the same time, took so much more thought. Although her parents were probably on drugs, unlike Alex’s or Freddy’s.
Maybe I’m completely wrong. Maybe there is so much more thought to placing a simple, or even considerably sounding nickname for a child. It took me almost the whole nine months of my pregnancy to figure out what the hell I was going to name my daughter. I went through the books, trying to figure out their meanings. This and those–the ins-and-outs of everything. I was set with the responsibility of placing a name on a human that would have to carry it out for the rest of their lives–considering that they wouldn’t go to the courts to have a name change.
I personally don’t completely hate my name. Could I have been named something a little more interesting—sure. I was told by my mother that I was named after a soap opera star that had lupus and died in the show. Interesting story? Maybe, but more so considerably morbid and weird—kind of like me. So, don’t call me Meg.