Name Game

I like to play a lot. Give me a barista and I’m going to try to throw them off in any way I can. Give me a parking meter cop on foot and its all gravy. Show me a sandwich artist in Subway and they’re all mine. Basically, my parents believed that being a circus clown would be my true calling. So, in an effort to make my parents happy, I screw with others while circling the parking lot on my unicycle.

My doting parents love to mess with me so much that when I was a  little girl-of the buffoon variety, they convinced me and I, naively, believed actors wore wax lips for their make out scenes. Embarrassing. True story. My first kiss didn’t happen until ninth grade because I was so terrified of getting pregnant by kissing without the protection of wax. What an evil plan, predecessors. So you can imagine, the amount of glee that rushes over me when I hear the aforementioned barista, have to call “butter-nuzzles” to deliver my coffee, sends waves of tingles down my spine. It’s so silly, but I’m easily amused. For a while, I thought sheep were female goats too. And that was in college. Wait for it… I gotta hear them call it again. Ah, it’s like heaven just delivered my new baby name with a cloud. Glitter Girl. Princess. Bubbles. Goober. Renaming myself every time I go into a Starbucks to order my coffee has been my own sick little game I’ve been playing for about a year now. I don’t believe that they find the humor in it; But, I guarantee finding the stick shoved way up the ass of any said person and yanking it out quickly is my reason to live. Why are we so serious restaurant servers of our modern society? Why can’t we just find the one precious nut out of the prolific bunch? Find joy. Find the happiness deep inside your lunchtime servitude. I may have enough nuts to carry on my own account… but I like to share.

Hi, what would you like to order? Um, I’d like a vanilla caramel macchiato. What’s your name? My name? Oh… um, let me think. What should I pick today? She seems happy to be at her daily grind. Or not. Jingles. What? My name Jangles. That’s your name? Sure. Why not? She sighs. With a splash of irritant accompanying her demeanor. All in good fun, I say. If my mom and dad could convince me that movie stars wore wax lips so they wouldn’t have movie screen babies… then, today, my name is Juggles. Don’t wear it out.

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