Throughout history, mankind has sought to use umbrella reasoning to typify certain types of people who all belong to a readily-identifiable subset, and then corral them into groups based on a shared trait or two. In its most egregious form, this type of thinking results in things like Apartheid, Kent State, the Klan, and the Holocaust. However, in its lighter forms, we end up with things like
the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, campus Greek organizations, The Kiwanis, and hair-tearingly asinine "What C-List 'Simpsons' Character Are You?" quizzes on Facebook. I guess it's up to you to figure out which is worse.
Personally, I'm gonna go with these guys.
Man...FUCK the Kiwanis.
However, out of all of the laughably silly, "everyone who belongs to group A will possess trait B" blanketing that goes on, I find the Zodiac the funniest. Because if there's any one barometer that's both a reliable indicator of personality types AND an effective means of scrying up the future, it's the study of constellations. Mammoth spheres of noble gases burning billions of light-years away over an inestimably huge span of airless inky space? Yeah, they TOTALLY care about us, and about how we're doing. And it is absolutely imperative that they let us know that Tuesday might be a good day to chat up that cute secretary. Yeah, go for it, big guy. Omicron-2 Andromeda is totally in your corner. Hell, even the clumsily-translated placemats at the Chinese buffet down the block make more sense than that.
However, there is always the exception that proves the rule. Sometimes, all persons who share a common aspect DO share common traits. And rarely is this more clear than when you consider people's names. As evidence of this, how often have we said, "He doesn't LOOK like a Chad," or, "I swore off of girls named Elizabeth"? It happens. And the reason it does is because our cumulative life experience teaches us that Chad is invariably a craven douche whose whole life's ambition is to never fuck a girl with a dress size higher than the age she started kindergarten, while Elizabeth is a high-maintenance twat who conveniently "forgets" to tell you she's splitting for a month to backpack across Europe, and then comes home with the clap. It's just TRUE.
See ya! Maybe.
Of course, the argument can be made that people with certain names tend to possess common facets because they're subtly nudged into the direction of them whether they want to be or not; but ultimately, that's a chicken-and-egg argument that more or less reinforces the point, if you think about it. You have a certain name, people expect you to act a certain way based on how other people they know with your name have acted. And so it comes to pass that it's just easier to fucking BE that way as long as they're going to assume you're going to be in advance. It's a vicious circle of self-fulfilling prophecy. So, while you
might have turned out to be a respectable, pleasantly non-threatening, and possibly-gay CPA in a cardigan had your folks gone with "Charles"...they didn't. They thought "Jerry" would be better. So, instead, you're the only guy in the room who thinks you're hilarious, and you pick up checks like they're manhole covers. It may or may not be your fault, but we'll never know, will we?
It was while thinking about this that I realized I know a lot of women. A LOT of women. Some, even in the biblical sense. And it goes without saying that the above-mentioned phenomenon plays itself out pretty reliably based on my life experience. If it didn't...I wouldn't be writing this. So, I figured I might be able to get a spot of mileage out of imparting what I've learned regarding that. So I present unto you Part One of the
Diary of Fools A-to-Z Guide to Girl's Names. In it, you'll find my boiled-down, overall impression of what the gals who've had these names have represented to me. I'm not gonna pretend I'm right about ALL of this, but I get the feeling that if you're inclined to look it over, you might just recognize a few chicks you know.
(Also, for a little added fun, I'll accompany each name with a photo example I found by punching that name into Google Image Search, and shamelessly stealing the result I feel best backs up my findings.
But. In order to keep it interesting for you and me both, I'm going to go look for pictures only AFTER I've written the breakdown of the name. I say this only so that you, dear reader, can feel secure in the notion that I'm not just giving my impression of some anonymous internet woman's photo. That would be lazy. No, what's actually going to happen is that I'm gonna sketch out her personality profile, and then grab the first image result I see that makes me say, "See? That's the kind of shit I'm talking about
right fucking there.")
So, without additional adieu, here is part one of my five-part A-to-Z guide of what you can expect when you run into the following females.
Ann.
Ann is something of a wet blanket. She's cordal enough, sure. Nice, even. But she's completely inscrutable. She just never seems to get worked up about much, you don't know a lot about her, and she has a job you could never see yourself doing in a million years, or you'd kill yourself from the tedium. It's usually something terribly dry, utilitarian, and somewhat academic, like a librarian, or a lab tech. If she's out drinking with friends, Ann nurses a single gin and tonic, does not volunteer any conversation of her own volition, and the jokes that make everyone else at the table laugh uproariously? Ann just smirks, narrows her eyes and nods, bemused.
Ann is also usually vaguely religious, and gives off an air of silent judgment.
But what's most infuriating about Ann is, when you picture her closet at home, there's an exact fifty-fifty split of probability concerning what's hiding behind her pleated skirts and earth-tone sweater-vests. It's either: A) A six-foot by four-foot placard featuring a blown-up photograph of an aborted fetus that she keeps in pristine condition for the regular stony-faced protests outside the clinic two towns over, or B) A wheeled, locking Craftsman tool chest full of fetish/BDSM gear that she keeps meticulously oiled and sanitized.
And you'll never know which.
Becky.
Becky is more fun than a McDonald's PlayPlace ball pit full of humongous, greased-up tits. Anyone who calls her "Rebecca" gets playfully slapped on the arm and reprimanded. Becky is the one who comes up with giggly nicknames for everyone based on a fun shared experience, the first one to grab the mic on karaoke night, and the most apt to give you a homemade gift on your birthday. But it will not be the sort of macaroni-and-construction-paper abortion most are. It will be something useful, fun or attractive, and feature a personal touch based on something she remembers about you.
The problem is, Becky is cripplingly insecure, and it's for no goddamn evident reason at all that anyone she knows can figure out. To begin with, she thinks she's fat. And sure, while she's usually carrying around maybe 10 or 15 extra pounds over what the bullshit insurance-company BMI charts say she ought to be based on nothing but their goddamned profit forecast, she's carrying it in places and in ways that still stop frat-boys mid-sentence when she walks into the room, and well into her thirties at that. She thinks she's unattractive, but you'd kill for her hair, she's never had a single pimple, and 7 out of ten people would say, "adorable" if asked to describe her in one word. She constantly makes self-deprecating jokes about her intelligence level, but you know damn well she graduated college with a 3.8 GPA. So, while Becky may hide behind a facade of bubbly, likable energy, anytime you go out with her, she's crying her mascara off and bitching about how she's never had an orgasm by her third Cosmo.
Courtney.Courtney is a real mixed bag, and most of what's in the mix is bullshit.
Courtney is, first and foremost, secure in the notion that she is smoking fucking hot. And, admittedly, she sort of SHOULD be, in as much as she possesses all of the usual qualities that the lowest common denominator of society commonly looks for in women it applies that label to. The problem is...she isn't. She isn't, because something went really strangely wrong somewhere during the assembly process, even though you've never
quite been able to put your finger on just exactly what that was. In fact, the overall effect of Courtney is the same as a jigsaw puzzle that's been forced together incorrectly: Based on the individual pieces involved, you
should have gotten the sort of picturesque result promised by the box...But that just ain't what you wound up with, brother. And you're really not sure what the fuck happened. You only know that it while it stops well shy of grotesque, it's more than fucked-up enough to be unsettling anyway.
By virtue of her delusions-of-grandeur self-image, Courtney appointed herself ringleader of your social circle years ago because she genuinely thinks she's the prettiest, and everyone knows that's how it works. As such, she's the one who decides when girls' night is, what bars you'll be going to, and which songs are "WOOOO!" enough for all of you to go and dance in a circle to, your backs to everyone else.
The upshot of this is, much like how she over-estimates her own attractiveness, Courtney also thinks quite a lot of her qualities as a person, and so doesn't see that she's actually a complete and utter cunt. She THINKS people respect her because she is assertive, influential and refreshingly blunt; but in reality, nobody can really stand the sight of her because she's actually bossy, manipulative and needlessly mean. The only reason her "friends"continue to hang out with her is the same reason Eskimos eat blubber: Sure, it sucks most of the time, but they've just always done it that way, and it's too fucking late to start second-guessing it
now.
Incidentally, Courtney is also a professional grade
cock blocker clam-jammer. That cute guy at the end of the bar might have taken a very-mutual shine to one of her friends, but it was Courtney who first uttered the phrase, "we CAME as a group, we LEAVE as a group." And of course, defying her self-styled authority would be tantamount to social suicide, because everyone's too goddamn old to find new friends at
this point.
Danielle.Danielle is never the prettiest one of her friends. She gives it the ol' college try, though. She dresses nicely, and wears her hair and makeup in ways that are perfectly attractive, but she never
quite gets there. And it's not that she's
ugly. It's just that she's never once been the girl some guy has practically killed himself to date or sleep with. Not that he wouldn't if SHE came on to HIM...it's just that if he had the option, Danielle isn't the one he'd pursue of his own volition, because she fell just short of really hitting the Pick Six in the overall genetic lottery.
Funny thing is, Danielle is genuinely okay with that. She knows that nobody calls her "hot" behind her back. And she truly doesn't give a shit. She honestly doesn't place that much emphasis on it, because she's got plenty of other stuff going on. She's smart and funny, she has plenty of friends, and whether or not anyone else thinks her job is interesting, she sure as hell seems to like it. And she has cool hobbies, too. She travels, is surprisingly good at something artistic or creative, and and volunteers with causes she believes in.
But Danielle has a secret. While a lot of her confidence stems from the fact that her personality is thicker and more diversified than a CEO's financial portfolio, no small amount also comes from the fact that she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that she's the most mind-blowing fuck in the entire room. She has honed every tool in her bag of bedroom of tricks to a razor edge, and whenever she DOES find a guy who's interested enough to open it, she rewards him with the ride of his life. Because of this, she actually gets laid more often than her supposedly "prettier" friends, and none of them really understands why. But the guys do. Do they EVER. Her name is whispered among them with reverence, and her number is kept underlined and starred in dozens of little black books for a three-county radius.
Emily.
Emily is a tiny, wispy thing who looks as though she'd blow away like dandelion fluff at the slightest hint of a breeze. Her skin is almost tissue-paper translucent, and reveals much of the skeletal, circulatory, and connective structure beneath it. She doesn't talk much, and when she does, you have to almost put your hands on your knees and lean in really close, or you'll miss it. Her wardrobe reflects her almost ethereal nature, and is comprised mostly of gauzy, flowing skirts, and blouses that look like they'd fall apart after a months' worth of washes. Lots of silk, cheesecloth and linen for Emily, and not so much as a single cable-knit sweater. She doesn't wear eye makeup, either.
Emily will live in a college town, and will be mistaken for a student until she's almost forty. She works in a bookstore, and makes healthy use of the employee discount. She enjoys respectable, non-supermarket romance novels, but her main passion is fantasy. She possesses an exhaustively encyclopedic knowledge of the works of J.R.R. Tolkien, Anne McCaffrey, and Ursula K. LeGuin. If you go to her apartment above a café or head shop in the Bohemian section of town, it's positively stuffed with bookshelves. The décor is mismatched but funky, heavy on color and texture. Emily will light some incense, and offer you a cup of the herbal tea she gets in loose bulk at the vegan co-op. She'll bring it out in a china cup complete with saucer. offers you the
papasan or beanbag chair while she sits cross-legged on the floor. She apologizes for cat hair you can't really see, and while she might call "Tabitha" out to meet you, you'll never see a cat. Emily explains that this is because Tabitha is shy with strangers, and is probably hiding under the futon. Emily does not own a microwave or a television, and she dresses up like a fairy every Halloween. She spells it "faerie," however.
Whatever you do...Do NOT attempt to sleep with Emily. You will snap her in two like a porcelain figurine.
*********************
That'll do it for now, kids. Tune in next week for part two, wherein I discuss why Jenny is a great girl to date, but you should never marry her, and exactly how you should deal with being stalked by Greta.
Peace.
Fact: 78% of people consider the Snuggie a terribly stupid product.
<---- Hall of Fame FUPA.
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