Originally, I was supposed to be a Bailey, until my dad decided he didn’t like it. As protest to my mother, who was 100% on board with the name, 3 weeks before I was born my dad bought a dog. Bailey the beagle. After that the naming was up to my dad, who pulled the name Chloe seemingly out of thin air.

In many languages my name means green sprout. With my being 5’0, it seems to fit well. Personally, I prefer the 1 out of a million definitions that said Chloe meant blooming. Because I am like a rose: not exactly an eyesore and occasionally smells pretty good. Touch me, and I’ll make you bleed. None of that wimpy green sprout business.

Not once in my life have I ever felt like a Chloe. Not when they called me “little Chloe” because there was another taller and better Chloe dancing beside me. Not when I open a birthday card every year from my aunt who always spells it “Chole” and I have to write a thank you letter back, almost aggressively signing “Chloe” at the bottom. Not when me and my little brother wrote our names in the newly places concrete in our driveway, leaving out forever mark on our home.
Perhaps when I am older I’ll change my name to something nicer. Something that lets me express my inner emotions through a different arrangement of the alphabet. Something that won’t make me say my last name every time I text someone new. Something that won’t get written wrong on my birthday cake. Maybe Lucy, or Anna, or Jennifer. Something that suits me better than Chloe ever would.

What about Lady Monster Truck? Yeah, that’s good. Let’s go with Lady Monster Truck.