After a day like today, I sometimes feel that the one thing that is keeping me from that 14-hour low-speed chase down a Southern Californian highway–hand-scrawled Denny’s napkin manifesto fluttering out the windows of a “borrowed” ’87 Ford Taurus–is the knowledge that when my get-away finally hits the airwaves, my name will be horribly misused.
For those who don’t know, Molly is a nickname for my true given name Mary Ellen; a name so ill-suited to me it’s as if my parents made a bet.
It’s not a bad name, it’s just not me. However, what gets me even more irked is when it’s shortened to just Mary. Being called a name that I have never assumed in my life is bad enough when it is my actual name. Being addressed by the wrong name entirely is worse. It’s like me being called “Frank” and expected to suddenly grow a penis. It’s that foreign to me.
And it bothers me that much.
So, rest easy and be confident in that the only thing really keeping me from screaming my demands from a rusted-out, borrowed ’87 Taurus somewhere on the 405 is the fear that the evening news will report my legacy not as “Molly Knop, quirky yet brave leader of Chaos, frees millions as the world rejoices.” but “Mary Knop, picky nerd with titular issues has hissy fit.”
News at Eleven.
I write awkward tales. Mostly funny. Usually true. Often truthfully funny.