I don’t want to freak you out, but at some point before you were able to walk, talk, or go to the bathroom intentionally, someone took a bunch of letters, wrote them down, and dictated what sounds you would turn your head to for the rest of your life.
Allen. Roy. John. Sarah. Lana. Mary. Troy. Pete. Marnie. William. Casey. Steve. Lucy. Timmy. Aaron. Biggie. Ronald. Christian. Courtney. Bill. Ted. Excellent Adventure.
So here you are, a miracle of nature and nurture, the culmination of every single moment that has occurred to you in your life, and still, if your name is John, someone yells out John, and there you are. You’re John. And there really isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.
You can call yourself Diddy or Snoop Lion, but you’re still John and you know it.
I only bring this up because I think most of us have an unarticulated need for control. We lay in bed at night and think of different jobs, designations and locations, but we rarely pray for another name.
So, John, before you go to bed tonight, praying for a new car, a new couch and a new life, remember that those things will still belong to John, so you better get used to him. You better learn to fucking love him.