I just had this thought: what if everyone chose their own name? But here's the catch: you choose it when you're 5 years old, and you have to keep it for life. On their fifth birthday every kid goes into their room, no adults allowed, and decides their own name.
Do you have any idea how much cooler everyone's name would be? That guy Daryl, in the next cubicle, his name's actually Donatello Monster Truck He-Man Smith. Catherine, in Accounting? Don't know her. Oh, you mean Princess Starry Sparkles My Little Pony Henderson? The world would be a better place. Can you imagine voting for Tiger Shark 2% Milk Stevens? Me too.
Mom says I should journal. ("Journal," like it's a verb. I'm going to journal in my journal. I'm going to go drive around in my drive around. I don't think it can be a verb and a noun. Not at the same time, anyway.) People say its a good way to get your true feelings out, to dig deep and find out what's down there. You know what thoughts are hiding deep down there? Shark Bites. Whatever happened to them? Those things were the best. You'd tear open that silvery package and they'd spill out onto your desk, and you'd quickly take account of how many Great Whites you were blessed with that particular Thursday. In that moment, you wanted nothing more than to name yourself Shark Bites Johnson.
This is what I've got deep down there. We could have wasted two hundred bucks to lay back on a couch and have a PhD discover that my deep-seated issues revolve primarily around high-fructose corn syrup and cornstarch. (Also, if someone told me they were going to take corn and turn it into a fruit snack, I'd say they were crazy. But they do it every day. Corn...machine...low rumbling...POOF!, fruit snack.)
Okay, I'm gonna go to the gym, because I have nothing to do until the 26th of April.
I Heart You
