I don’t know why my parents thought I would turn out normal after they named me after my Uncle Larry. My reprobate Uncle Larry, who collected rents at his apartment building with a gun holster strapped to his thigh, the one of endless parties, the one who died when he neglected a perfectly curable skin cancer until it was too late. Why do you name a kid after someone like that?
I turned out a rebel in different ways. I went to college (the first person in my direct line to do so) and didn’t quit until I graduated with a PhD. This doesn’t sound like a rebellion, but I was a late baby boomer, and my mother practically begged me to come home and become a waitress, an acceptable job that could make a lot of money from tips. Mom finally gave up all hope of having a grandchild from me, a wise choice.
I went through these years with untreated bipolar disorder, and I was very sedate for someone with the malady. I didn’t abuse drugs; I gave up partying after a short stint of drinking with roommates; I didn’t get pregnant. I was, however, eccentric, and that hasn’t gone away since the medication.
This is what happens when you name someone after their crazy uncle.
Words Like Me 