What is in a name? Whether exotic or mundane it holds so much value to the beholder. Michelle, a flowing example of French culture--but not me. I am complex, a smorgasbord of ideology and beliefs. Who is God? Well according to my name, I am. Though being "God", Michelle does not hold this unique thought of my name. Instead, only evokes a pale pink ribbon of letters written in the times new roman of the twenty-first century (and I hate pale pink.) I am not your average font; I am a puzzle of a million pieces and obscure letters, like a stained glass window, Momma would say.
I am carefully put together, like that of one named Anastasia, not harsh on the tongue but long enough to hold significance. Anastasia would be that name that couldn't be spoken in a moment, but forced one into spending more than a fraction of time to address me. Anastasia is a name with history and class, unlike that of my bland title. As Anastasia, I would be a princess draped in furs and velvet rich colors. I could be a piece of the Russian empire, a lasting memory and legend. With this name I could be respected as I glide down fancy carpeted aisles to feasts dedicated to me. However, I am not Anastasia. In fact, I was originally Amanda. The name my Momma so "thoughtfully" chose for me. A name even more bland than my current one, with more puns to ones� gender. Thankfully, the cruel potential jokes over the name led me to my current tag of idenity. Or worse, I could have been plagued with the name of my mother, Penelope. The strewn out type of name that creates the slightest of gag reflexes in the speaker. It does not allow the mind to envision elegance and grace, but a thin pale girl in bottle-pop glasses. I am not this name either, but nor am I Michelle. In my heart I will forever be Anastasia, but for now my permanent marker will always scrawl out those same eight letters... M I C H E L L E.
The Life and Times of Prussiah
I plan to post character descriptions really....