My parents hate me. It’s the only explanation. Why else would they have named me Mortimer? Yep, you read that right. Mortimer. As if having the last name Fitzwinkle weren’t already bad enough!
Now, perhaps you’re reading this with no pre-existing knowledge of me or my life, if you could call it that, and perhaps, if that is the case, you find yourself thinking that really, Mortimer isn’t that terrible of a name (although Fitzwinkle is admittedly another story). Mortimer is respectable and dignified and blah blah SO WHAT! All of that may or may not be true, but you’re not the one living this travesty! I’ve had seventeen years to get used to this abomination of a moniker, but it hasn’t happened yet.
Know what adds salt to the wound? I’m a girl. A chick. A dame. A person of female persuasion. In this day of gender neutrality and ambiguity, maybe that doesn’t mean much to you, but it does to me.
And I’m not just a girl, I’m a girly-girl! Elegant dresses and fine jewelry, sophisticated updos and glamorous makeup… Sweeping into a party with a few appreciative glances from handsome young men, only to be introduced as- well, you know the name by now; I don’t even like to say it. Then seeing those handsome brows furrow… The sparkling eyes take on a puzzled look… And the expressions of distaste flit across their faces before those attractive young men quickly excuse themselves for one reason or another.
That’s what always happens in my “beautiful rich girl” fantasies, at least. In reality, there are no fancy parties with important guests wearing gorgeous clothing. I’m actually just a middle-class, ordinary white girl with average looks (you’ll hear more about that later, I’m sure) and a slightly-above-average intellect. Rich or poor, classy or white trash, no girl deserves the name Mortimer!