America Name, No Way!

Now that I am thirty, I will throw caution to the wind and reveal the tedious tale of my high school Spanish Class. All punters took a Spanish Name. All were to use Spanish Name while in Spanish Class. I was, and remain, Pilar. I was a deep thinker and a realist, so I assumed a Spanishy Surname as well: Bonita. Pilar Bonita, see. By the time Christmas erupted almost everyone had dismissed their Spanish Names and resumed use of their America Names. Joaquin morphed back into Patrick Duffy, for example. I dug in and survived the winter; I was Pilar Bonita until I graduated three years later. I’m not convinced that the Spanish instructor ever knew my America Name. I certainly don’t know her America Name. It's too late now. She's gone. The Spanish language, gone. Patrick Duffy, gone. America Name, gone. Thirtieth birthday, gone. Dream of becoming Celebrated Lady Prizefighter, gone.

Instead of telling people that I am thirty, I will tell people that I am thirsty. For Example: “How old are you?" "I’m thirsty, gaarrghhhh hhh,” “Do you need a glass of water?” “What?” “Glass of water?” "What?” “WATER?” “WHAT?!?” et cetera. Speak up when you question old people, you nosy parkers.