Just a bit of fiction.. not based on any actual events or persons, real or otherwise. 😉
I immediately saw the confusion on his face as he tried to figure out what “Hi, my name is X,” meant. It took him a couple moments before he replied.
“Oh, you mean your name is Xavier?” he asked somewhat confidently, still shaking my hand.
Yep, here we go as usual.
I shook my head. “No, my name is X. Just X.”
You could see the wheels turning slowly in his head because he just didn’t seem to understand that that was actually my name.
“But what does it stand for?”
Sigh. Why is it every time I introduce myself to some fuckwit in a club or wherever I have to explain that it’s not an initial, it’s not a nickname (sort of). That it’s just my name.
It just made me want to scream at these idiots that don’t seem to understand that when someone introduces themselves, regardless of their name, that the polite thing to do is to respond, “Oh, nice to meet you X. Are you having a nice evening?”
Or something stupid like that.
Instead I’m supposed to smile like it’s no big deal that this idiotic twat can’t seem to understand that it is what I said it is, and that I don’t have to explain myself or let them in on some secret about the hidden meaning behind it. It’s just none of their fucking business.
It just makes me want to scream and shout at these dummies, but I can’t, cause that isn’t the polite thing to do.
Instead to this guy I just said, “Um yeah, nice meeting you. See you around” and then walked away to find someone with half a brain to talk to.
Obviously my parents weren’t that out there that they named me X when I was born. My actual name is Alexander, but I don’t use it except when it comes to the government and paying my taxes.
When I was young, everyone used to call me Xander, including my parents. I was never an ‘Alex’ thank Christ, especially when you grow up with ‘Family Ties’ and Alex P Keaton on the TV. What a twit he was.
Then when I was probably around 15 or so, my friends and schoolmates started calling me ‘X’… And it’s just kind of stuck over the years. Now I don’t answer to anything else.
There have been times when people have just assumed that I called myself ‘X’ to try to be cool or hip or some other bullshit. Or like that fuckwit tonight, that they can guess what my real name is and then try to call me by it, as if they’re being superior to my supposed ‘coolness’.
Whatever these idiots do, they don’t do it for long or at least not around me because I don’t stand for it. I usually walk away like I did tonight, but there have been times when I’ve gotten into it with a few people when they couldn’t wrap their tiny little pea-sized brains around the fact that my name is X, I want them to call me X, and I don’t want them to call me anything but X.
You’d think that be simple enough.
Anyway, my name is my name. And if you don’t like it, then go ahead and fuck off. Won’t bother me any.
Yeah in case you couldn’t tell, I’m a bit blunt. It works for me.
Anyway, after getting away from the brainiac who couldn’t figure out my name, I went trolling around the party in search of someone somewhat interesting to talk to.
My friend Mags had brought me to yet another gallery opening in East London for some supposedly avant-garde new painter friend of hers she met at an organic coffee shop a couple weeks ago. I’m not much of an art fan, but she seems to eat it up faster than a fat kid with a box of Smarties.
I only come along for the free booze really… Ok and to maybe find some cutie to fuck afterwards. Or during if I’m bored and drunk enough. There was this one time in the cloak room…
After a few minutes of walking around, mouthing platitudes and murmuring (very) faint praise for the artist’s work, I found Mags standing in a corner hanging off the sexiest man in the room, running her fingers through his golden hair as she laughed at his witty repartee.
He also just happened to be my ex-boyfriend Daren.