I hate my name. I’ve always hated my name. I tried for years to come up with a nickname that I would like better, but the one that stuck is marginally better, if that at all. I always wanted a more vanilla name, like Tiffany, Sarah or Kate. Unfortunately, my ethnicity is written all over my face and who was the last Italian you ever met named Tiffany? It would be like wearing pants with a gap in the back. Though I can wear Marissa well, it’s a very formal name, and I think in order to carry a formal name, you have to be formal and fancy on the inside. I’m not: I wear flannel shirts and let my cats sleep on my bed with me. This leaves my nickname, Missie. When you hear the name Missie, you conjure an image of a cheerleader with blonde hair who says “like” incessantly. This fit moderately well until I was about fifteen, but somewhere in there, I realized that I’m brunette, I seldom lead cheers and my lexicon is significantly larger. I could use a symbol, but let’s face it: you have to be able to pull off that mustache to use a symbol like Prince and in spite of my Italian heritage, I try to avoid facial hair. All of this leaves me nameless, were it not for a charming group of friends I had in high school. We all made up totally new nicknames for each other which were completely unrelated to our given names. Mine is Sesasha. It’s special. It’s unique. I’ve decided that it means “my friends are all idiots, but they loved me enough to include me in their strange game.”
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