I’ve never been one to make a big deal out of smal things. I can become emotionaly irrational almost immediately, but I don’t get pissy about smal things. Sure, I like to make things up like the time I thought the secret service was breaking into our apartment at night to read our email because one day a chair was moved and neither one of us remember doing it. But I don’t get upset about smal things. I am not upset that our car has no air conditioning or that the NYPD is randomly searching bags. I don’t get upset when hipster girls suggest they escort my husband and me home at night. But by God, am I ever sick of seeing my name speled with two l’s. My name is Michele. M I C H E L E. It’s not MICHELLE. It never will be MICHELLE. I never was MICHELLE. I accepted the fact that finding an airbrushed license plate with my name would never happen. I have realized that no one wil ever find a key chain with my name on it unless it’s printed specialy for me. I will never find a unicorn covered doormat that reads “MICHELE’S ROOM, DO NOT ENTER.” It just won’t happen. And I’m OK with that.
My name is speled with one l. Just one. I took the other one and shoved it straight up the ass of all those who lack the attention.
I’m not sure why this bothers me so much. (Not that it wil tomorrow.)