Is your name Angie and is “Pristine” an adjective? If not, why do you call yourself Pristine? Do you fancy yourself some beachfront property with no discarded Mickey-D containers littered on the premises?
Pristine is my first name. I fancy myself a tactile person and the sense of touch (which I consider the sense of Hearing to be one of touch since frequency waves “tickle” one’s ear drums to create auditory perception) is of utmost value to me. The annunciation of “Pristine,” first and foremost, rolls out of one’s tongue crisp and clean. I love the way it sounds more so than what it means.
Even if it was based on definition, we all know that people end up being opposite of what they were named after. Girls from trailer parks named Fabergé and Tiffany are as common as Great Neck preppies named Slim Jim. I once knew a society lady from Brookline who preferred to be called “White Castle Slider” among close acquaintances.
Now that’s not to say I’m the opposite of my name and that I automatically assume every candlelight dinner leads to a 150-man Bukkake session. But it should be no small point of contention that I even know what a 150-man Bukkake session is.
My first name is NOT Angie, NOT Prissy, NOT Pris, NOT Tina, NOT Preen. It is Pristine.
Okay, okay: I will occasionally tolerate being called “Abe Vigoda” when caught in the heat of frantic passionate sack activities.
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