Stuffed Foxes' and Plain Jane's

Yesterday, the world felt smaller. Even before yesterday, Ellicott City had always seemed like a small place. People are always running into each other at weird places, and surprisingly enough, I hate meeting people at unplanned places. People are either always trying to avoid eye contact, pounce others from behind, or declare that the chance meeting was serendipitous. I've even ran into a guy I knew in the girl's restroom at Barnes and Noble. My friend and I stared at the male presence from the bathroom sinks, and when the guy finally realized where he was, he ran out with his arms flailing embarrassingly in the air. I mean, I'm sure that the guy walking into the girl's bathroom at the exact moment I was washing my hands after doing my business means that he's my future soulmate. I mean, how could he not be?

Anyways, yesterday (after an uncalled mishap with Verizon Fios) I was forced to endure twenty four hours of no phone calls, television, and the World Wide Web--I felt like the world revolved around my room in my house. For a while, I was a hermit. That is, until I couldn't stand it any longer. I headed for my friend's house. His neighborhood was sleepy--sleepy sunshine melted off slanted rooftops--but, his house was awake. The dogs barked when I walked up; I smiled and waved, but they growled in response. After I headed in, we sat like awkwardly comfortable friends as he practiced plucking guitar strings while staring at a shifty-eyed man playing guitar through a computer screen (my friend called it an "interactive" experience) and I roamed around the house like a tourist (some of the stuff I found include a stuffed fox, a clock in the shape of a pink guitar, and random coal on top of the television). It felt like I knew my friend's family personally just by browsing through the contents of his home. The remainder of the afternoon proceeded not as planned (nothing usually does), but I think it worked out perfectly anyways.

That evening, my mom's friend's younger daughter ran into my room screaming, "Mollypoo!" About 4-5 years back, I had joked around and said my name was Molly to two young girls when they asked me what my name was. They believed me, and the name stuck. Now, even though they know my real name, they still like to call me Molly. I still get thank-you and Christmas cards adorned with the foreign name. It's strange, but I've always been unsure of being a "Yegene." There's the presumed assumption about a person's personality just by the name: a "Plain Jane," "Virgin Mary," and "Bitchy Blair." I have had the pleasure of defining my own essence because--what the hell is a "Yegene?" And further yet, what the hell is a "Molly?" All that comes to mind is fat and the SAT word "mollify."