No matter our demographics, social circles, or mentally scarring upbringings, the nickname is an essential part of our lives from early adolescence until the day we kick the bucket. Once a nickname has been given to you, it becomes a part of who you are. Tied into the very fabric of your being, this substitute for your name can generally be identified with far more than your mass-produced, generic, dumpstered out excuse of a real name. And, unless your name is Reginald or Gert (because both of those names are tight as fuck), chances are that your nickname rolls off the tongue a little bit better than the one you had prescribed to you before you had the self-awareness to realize that you’d rather be called “Spitfire” for the rest of your life.
When broken down, the origins of nicknames will fit into one of three descriptions. Either:
1) It has been bestowed upon you by friends or peers because of some defining/hilarious event that occurred in your past (here’s to you, Seafood; no one’s ever going to call you Rick again).
2) It is a shortened/variated version of your first name or just straight up your last name. Or…
3) You had the fucking audacity to give yourself a nickname based on your personal assessment of how great of a person you are and how many times a day you have to re-tie your dick to your leg to keep it from dragging against the floor.
The first two are acceptable. But even though not everyone has a crazy story or sick last name like “McKnight” or “SexHound,” that still does not justify, under any circumstances, giving yourself a nickname. Personally, I can put up with a lot of shit from people. But if you have a nickname, especially one that revolves around some characteristic of desire like your looks or athletic ability, I won’t be able to hold a conversation with you without either threatening your life or my own. Titles of this importance have to come about naturally, and forcing it just makes you come across as an absolute bottom of the barrel human being.
For example, let’s say you see the biggest man you’ve ever laid your eyes upon. He’s blocking out the sun when he stands and has to walk through doors sideways. You’re in awe. Not because you’re jealous or anything — being that huge is repulsive — but because you just cannot for the life of you figure out how one person got to be that size. Your friend leans over and tells you that mountain of a man is nicknamed “Tugboat.” Holy fucking shit. Did you hear that? Tugboat. Do not fuck with that guy. He worked his entire life to get that nickname. He probably eats nails and gravel and can, like, open jars with one hand, and…
Wait, what? He gave himself that title? He failed out of his Bachelor’s in Physical Education? I don’t get it… he had rock climbing as a two-credit elective… Oh, he’s on steroids?
Everything sinks in as you realize the type of person that “Tugboat” really is. The façade of his self-proclaimed legacy falls away, and you see him for the insecure, roided-out monkey that’s been staring you in the face this entire time. Go fuck yourself, Tugboat.
Don’t give yourself a nickname..