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HelpRe: You Say, You Think
in reply to a message by Sabrina Fair
“This is my daughter, Brighton”
You say: How nice to meet you...Brighton?
You think: Brighton - watch her grow up to fail the 8th grade. Twice.
“This is my son, Aspen.”
You say: How are you today, Aspen?
You think: Either his parents like to ski, or they're Kre8tyve.
“This is my son, Zuma.”
You say: Hello, Zuma, how are you?
You think: Zoom, zoom, zoom. Mazda
“This is my daughter, Banjo.”
You say: Nice to meet you. I love to see musical appreciation in young people.
You think: Can you say hick?
“This is my son, Valley.”
You say: Hey, Valley.
You think: Tree hugging hippies. Back away s l o w l y.
“This is my daughter, Kingston.”
You say: Good morning, Kingston. I've heard so much about you.
You think: Like, how your parents are pretentious yuppies who wanted a son but got your little, bratty self instead.
“This is my daughter, Briseis.”
You say: Ah, Briseis, so nice to finally meet.
You think: Ah, Briseis, coveted by many men. I forsee herpes.
“This is my daughter, Ligeia.”
You say: How are you, Li...Li...um, hon?
You think: Inexplicably, I'm reminded of lettuce. And strange bowel diseases.
“This is my daughter, Patience.”
You say: Good morning, Patience.
You think: So puritan. Prepare for road rage and fits of drama.
“This is my son, Damian.”
You say: Hey, Damian. What's up.
You think: I like this name, but I can't shake the feeling of something demonic.
“This is my son, Jericho.”
You say: Nice to meet you, Jer.
You think: The walls fell down. Not a good connotation to have...
“This is my daughter, Turquoise.”
You say: Hello, Turquoise.
You think: Well, I guess it's better than Jade. Or Crystal.
You say: How nice to meet you...Brighton?
You think: Brighton - watch her grow up to fail the 8th grade. Twice.
“This is my son, Aspen.”
You say: How are you today, Aspen?
You think: Either his parents like to ski, or they're Kre8tyve.
“This is my son, Zuma.”
You say: Hello, Zuma, how are you?
You think: Zoom, zoom, zoom. Mazda
“This is my daughter, Banjo.”
You say: Nice to meet you. I love to see musical appreciation in young people.
You think: Can you say hick?
“This is my son, Valley.”
You say: Hey, Valley.
You think: Tree hugging hippies. Back away s l o w l y.
“This is my daughter, Kingston.”
You say: Good morning, Kingston. I've heard so much about you.
You think: Like, how your parents are pretentious yuppies who wanted a son but got your little, bratty self instead.
“This is my daughter, Briseis.”
You say: Ah, Briseis, so nice to finally meet.
You think: Ah, Briseis, coveted by many men. I forsee herpes.
“This is my daughter, Ligeia.”
You say: How are you, Li...Li...um, hon?
You think: Inexplicably, I'm reminded of lettuce. And strange bowel diseases.
“This is my daughter, Patience.”
You say: Good morning, Patience.
You think: So puritan. Prepare for road rage and fits of drama.
“This is my son, Damian.”
You say: Hey, Damian. What's up.
You think: I like this name, but I can't shake the feeling of something demonic.
“This is my son, Jericho.”
You say: Nice to meet you, Jer.
You think: The walls fell down. Not a good connotation to have...
“This is my daughter, Turquoise.”
You say: Hello, Turquoise.
You think: Well, I guess it's better than Jade. Or Crystal.
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