Growing up, I was a colorful child. We’re talking a child of the late 80s, early 90s whose only “fashion” rule was wear all the colors, all the patterns and all the spandex… Preferably at once. Seriously guys, I can’t believe my parents let me out of the house like that. I mean, I appreciate the free-spirited philosophy behind their decision, but I’m pretty sure all the other parents and/or kids must have thought I was parent-less or came from a household of blind people.
Of course, why stop there? I was SUCH a colorful child that I insisted I be given an equally colorful name. Something SO colorful that it would match my equally colorful personality. What was this FANTASTIC name that I came up with for myself, you ask? Before I tell you, we’re going to have to invoke the “judgement-free zone rule” because oh ho ho, it’s bad. Something-only-a-6-year-old-would-ever-want-to-be-called bad.
I wanted, so badly, to be named Crystal Sparkle Rainbow.