Ok so the general census on my story title should be "I have a sister named Polonius." Done. Story done? Not quite. Here is a little bit (the main character's name is Rosaline):
Since growing into my late twenties, and learning a great deal more about the opposite sex, it has always struck me, with horror, how women often have their children’s names picked out by their early twenties. This discovery has long afflicted me as my mother had me well into her thirties. I am often bothered by her carelessness and lack of attention to my name, my label, the very first thing I say about my intimate self when I meet another. William would have been acceptable – very alpha male when changed to Will. Even Romeo. Did she not care about me or my future happiness? I think about this often as I put on my nametag for work, as I am doing now. Every morning, after my morning smoke and green tea, after I put on my grey, brown, black, or green slacks, and after I look into the mirror over my bathroom sink to do a final assessment of the degree of danger I exude, I wonder why I can’t bring myself to change it to Ross. However, I have a sister named Polonius. So maybe my mother was just whacked.
