Thursday, December 1, 2016

Names are weird

Names are really weird if you think about it. I mean, really think about it. When someone is born, we assigned an capricious string of syllables, and are expected to respond to those sounds as though they actually mean something. When I was young I named myself Argo. I like the stories, so I changed my name. Sure no one took it serious, but to a child, that name I picked was as good as my given name.
Sure I will admit, your name may represent something t...o you. It might be a word in your or somebody language or history. It may even be a title passed down through your family. But really, when it comes down to it, a name is just a bunch of sounds we arrange in a way we think is pleasing to the ear.
And then, we hold so them so high. We use them for identification, to communicate, to label, or even to mack. Yeah, I guess it’s fits the need. If there were no names, it would be pretty irritating trying to address people.
But, with all the good things, there are just as many problems with names. Take for instances last night. How was I supposed to know that there were going to be not one, but two, Albert’s at the restaurant? Pretty confusing, to say the least. And how was I to know both of these Albert’s were blond headed about 6 feet, plus; had short girlfriends with dark short strait brown hair? And, when I came up to the table of one of the Albert’s and quietly asked if his name was Albert Smith, how was I supposed to know that the other Albert was also Albert Smith?
So you see, names are downright confusing. Two Albert Smiths in the same restaurant on the same exact night, each seated across the table from a similar-looking woman. Honestly, what are the chances of that? Let me tell you, that’s never happened to me before, not once in my entire career.
And when the Albert Smith that I addressed looked up with recognition as the syllables of his name hissed through my teeth, how was I to know there were two of them? And when I mixed a little powder in his drink, and watched from the back as he sipped it throughout the night, should I have been thinking that there could be more than one?
If the other Albert Smith had left quietly, I would never have known. The first Albert Smith turned a sickly hue and began trembling, then jerking. His date rushed to his side, but he passed quickly. It was all going so smoothly, until the surviving Albert Smith was consoled by his own escort, who made the mistake of calling him by his full name.
Now do you see what I’m talking about? Names are utterly strange. They complicate things greatly. Again, I ask you: how was I supposed to know that there were two Albert Smiths there last night? And, more importantly, how was I supposed to know that I poisoned the wrong one? Names are stupid.

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