Hey. I'm Zoe Hershey. Yeah, I know that my last name is
Pamela's favorite snack. Can't you live 1 second of normal
life without telling me that? And if you tell me this fact,
why don't you make the fact a little bit softer and nicer,
something like "your last name is a very good chocolate. Oh,
and their kisses is the Pamela's favorite snack". I'd live
with this one. But you come, and tell me that like a
spitting in my face or something. It's not me anymore, It's
not Zoe-with-some-last-name, with a wonderful voice, nice
genes and modesty which spilt. It's now the girl over there
with the last name, which is the favorite... and you know
the rest.
So fucking what if my father migrate from Sweden as a child,
and my grandparents bought for him in the airport a huge box
of Hershey Kisses, so what, now I don't have a personality
anymore? And my grandparents didn't know one word in English
(oh, maybe except "hello" and "fuck off"), so the clerk
needed to find them a name, because they didn't understood
his question (maybe everything is for the best because the
original name was pieterjunsen), and the first thing he saw
was the Hershey box (well, it was box carrying a boy more
than a boy carrying a box), so he had decide that our name
will be Hershey. If this old clerk would be alive today, I'd
kill him, because now I'm stuck with a stupid name till my
marriage.
OK, I could live with this name- maybe everyone would say I
have a chocolate name, but at least I'm sweet- but then,
this irritating Pamela Anderson would HAVE to show her face
and a little bit of her body, and to say she loves Hershey
Kisses. From that moment, my life destroyed. I'm not
nice/smart/pretty Zoe anymore, from now on I'm the favorite
food for Pam.
And after all, I'm allergic to chocolate.