So Devon and I were talking about what we would name a kid if cynical bitterness turns out to be a poor form of birth control. A girl would be Aurelia, after my grandmother. Devon came up with Ptolemy for a boy, because "Thomas" and "Christopher" and "Assface the Unshowered Hobo" are too pedestrian for him, I guess. I told him we can't name a boy Ptolemy, because I can't even pronounce it properly most of the time. I pronounce it "Tole-e-may." I know it's wrong, but that's how my lips and tongue want to move, and I can't help it. So I would have to nickname him "Toe," and when he's 16 he would start a garage band called "Toe Jam," which would lead to a life of drugs and whores and roadies with fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. He'd burn out by 30 and spend the next 10 years on reality TV trying to convince people that his brand-new No. 1 song is just around the corner, but that would be a lie, because he'd keep forgetting that he bartered his guitar for a bag full of blue M&M's. And I'd have to explain to him that his name is Ptolemy because his father hates him.
I don't want that kind of broken life on my hands.
So I need to convince Devon to stop hating on little boys, which is weird, because normally I'm the one trying to punch small children to switch off whatever horrid noise they're making, so I figured I would be the one on a Child Protective Services watch list.
Devon's more into the psychological abuse, I guess. I can respect that.