Name-Calling

I hate nicknames.

Not the kind you give yourself; if your parents have had the bad taste to name you Jim-Bob or Oliver or Trixie, you are perfectly justified in asking people to call you anything that makes you happy.

It's the nicknames that you haven't asked for. It's one thing to be twelve years old, and have the other kids in class calling you four-eyes, or frizz-head. It's quite another to be an adult, by most people's reckoning, and have to put up with the G-ddamned things.

I have a perfectly servicable name. I like it. Nice and short, no fuss, no muss. Easy to spell, unless you subscribe to the No-H school.

So why, for the love of all that's good and holy, do people feel compelled to address my by idiotic collections of syllables that bear no relation to anything at all?

"Kiddo." Okay, I hate it, but it's understandable. I get it from some of the parents. I'll refrain from mentioning the fact that these are the people who gave me my actual name: if they didn't want to use it, perhaps a different one was in order. Oh, actually I guess I won't be refraining.

But really, people. "Pipsqueak?" I am not squeaky. I'm not that small. I hated Great Expectations.

Perhaps you find it charming/amusing/cute/funny? See, that's nice and all, but I don't. And I'm the one suffering the appellation. If I wanted to be addressed that way, I'd ask everyone I know, politely, to please do so. As I have never made such a request, you can assume that "Sarah" will be just fine, thanks.