Pet names. I hate them.As the reporters and editors of the Skiff found out this past Friday, I absolutely hate “pet names.” Now, I don’t expect everyone to call me by my name, and I don’t mind much when people do call me by what many would consider a “pet name,” but there are a few that just irk me to death.
I want everyone to take what I say here and personalize it to his or her own life. I think, and hope, you may find some truth in it.
Pet names are fine as long as they refer to what I am. You can call me “shorty” because I am short; you can call me ugly, that speaks for itself; and hell, you can call me ass – I deserve it most of the time.
But by no means call me sweetie. It’s not because I don’t consider myself a nice guy; it’s because I’m not a damn lollipop. You want a “sweetie,” go to Frog Bytes and grab a Snickers. Personally, I’d head for the Milky Way bars.
Did I hire you? Are you on my employment payroll? No? Then why are some people referring to me as “boss”? I probably wouldn’t hire you if you called me this, but if I did, you’re fired.
Something not many people know about me is that I am of Irish and German descent. There has never been an American Indian in my family since my great grandparents came to the “New World” in the early 1900s. There is no need to refer to me as “chief.” If I were a chief, I’d have you scalped for saying so.
I’ve been guilty of using this next word myself, but it bugs me when other people say it. Yes, I know that is a bit hypocritical – the word “chick.” Why are cute women called chicks? You know the reason you refer to a woman like that is because you probably find her hot, or you wouldn’t be talking about her in the first place. So, I must ask, why would you want to have sex with a baby chicken? We are all sick in the head.
But life goes on.
I am about to be 23 years old. While I may have the maturity of a 12-year-old boy with ADD, I do not find that to be any reason to refer to me as “baby.” While many people find it to be a term of endearment, I find it damn near insulting. Look, if I start crying, there won’t be any women there to comfort me, wonder what’s wrong or see if I need help. They will find the biggest football player they can just to kick my ass for being such a sissy. And, for the record, I do not cry.
Also, don’t call me an alcoholic; I’ve never attended a meeting in my life.
These are merely a few examples of words, just a variation of vibrations through the air, that can test someone’s mental health. I am a happy person, and I like being happy, but things like this make me mean.
So, from now on, if I hear names such as this, you will be receiving one disgruntled fist shaking in your general direction.