My name is Ann. Not Annie, not Annabelle, not Anne Marie, not Anna, not even Anne! Even Google considers my name a particularly boring anomaly; the first sentence that appears when you search Ann is: “Anne, alternatively spelled Ann.” So Ann is essentially a misspelled version of an already uncharacteristically forgettable name. Riddle me this, what possessed my sweet parents to name a child such an abhorrently plain name? I wasn’t even named after any dusty relative; they simply ‘liked’ the name Ann, and they simply didn’t consider the fact that they were inadvertently sentencing their youngest daughter to a life of painful social interactions. Let me unpack that statement: you know when you order food, or introduce yourself to literally anyone, and you are expected to state your name? This is typically an easy, almost tedious ritual that few think about. But, having a name that comes out in such a short burst of speech requires quite a bit of enunciation that I can never seem to muster. Me, being a stuttering fool, usually will say my name so quickly people will look at me quizzically and say, “Pardon?” because they are not from the early 1800’s and they are not typically accustomed to hearing a name that is one letter away from the indefinite article “an.” My name sounds about as eloquent as a fart; it blurts out abruptly and ends quickly, rolling off the tongue to come out as a nearly incomprehensible noise. When people inevitably ask me if Ann is short for something, I always pose a follow up question: Who in their right mind would make the conscious decision to call themselves ‘an’ – a goddamn indefinite article – with an extra n, and be imprisoned by perhaps the most boring name of the century?