The problem, my love - my muse, my great internal critic - is that your name contains half the bloody vowel sounds a mammalian throat is capable of producing if you pronounce them long and languid to be savored properly (the way I hear it in my head), and picks up half of the remainder if you pronounce it terse and broken like most Americans do instead. I shan't bring up the issue of rhotic versus rolling "r"s lest we wind up fighting about them until next Sunday and they only complicate the next bit, which I'm getting to.
This wouldn't be an issue if you'd simply tell me your real last name.
But you're a stubborn bastard and so I've been forced to make one up for you. (I know I'm neither the first nor the last to do so and no: I don't care; and yes: I am indeed a very special fucking snowflake, thank you for mentioning it, you sarcastic prick) And I keep finding wonderful, meaningful names to match you with: all of which have at least one internal rhyme and and worse, both internal and external rhymes, and therefore sound about as natural and unforced as a Marvel villain's when attached to Arthur.
I know this is illogical: that Arthur Miller was indeed a real live human who wrote some good plays and some bad plays, but published all of them under a given name with two internal rhymes and never thought about it twice. But it's giving me fits, driving me to distraction when I've things I'd much rather be doing to you and so I really must insist: tell me your name. I promise I won't share it. I won't even rhyme mine to the real one. All I'm asking for is the ghost of a clue.
*Conveniently phrased in Eames' voice that you might actually rise to the taunt
This entry was originally posted at http://moragmacpherson.dreamwidth.org/69391.html because DW is where I set up crossposting first and I'm lazy. Feel free to comment wherever you prefer. This post has comments on DW.