The lives and time of Vagina Prick

My name is Vagina Prick. My parents are quite proud of their "wit." I hate them with a passion.

They came up with that little gem because their last name is pronounced preek. "Wouldn't it be fun," they said somewhere between a 2004 Domaine Serene Chardonnay and the Glen Fiona Syrah, "if we named the baby Vagina, but pronounced it vageena?"

They weren't actually pregnant at the time; that happened shortly after the Vintage 1922 Barbeito Malvazia Madeira. They've made an art of putting the cart before the horse.

Sadly, I inherited neither their sense of humour nor their inclination to fine wines. I drink Vodka (pronounced Wodka by the way, with a Russian accent).

See? I have a sense of humour; just not theirs.

Strangely enough, in spite of being saddled with the worst name in the history of womankind, I lead a charmed life, I truly do. Whether that is because I was conceived on some pretty heady alcoholic fumes or because God must always be on top, I don't know and I don't care. I only know that I am wonderfully and amazingly still alive.

I've been thrown from a seventh floor window, hit by a rock n' roll tour bus and shot twice with a nailgun. Oh, and there was the guy who tried to poison me and ended up dead on the floor in/at my place. My weekend help was not at all pleased about that one, the deceased soiled himself from multiple orifices AND his nails turned black. I was pretty happy, though, since it was supposed to be me.

Despite so many people wanting me dead, the cosmos are clearly on my side and I'm fine with that. Perhaps they have an overwhelming sense of compassion for a person who has gone through life being alternately referred to as the "c" word and the "p" word.

I have a boyfriend. He sports the more (but not entirely) normal name of Thom Thumb, pronounced (you guessed it) thom tum. He doesn't get as much grief for his name and no one wants him dead, except me sometimes but only when he's being the "p" word. He never calls me the "c" word, he suspects his life is not quite so charmed as mine and values it that much more for the lack thereof.

So why do so many people want me dead? This is a question I regularly ask myself and my therapist. She doesn't know the answer yet, but reassures me she is getting closer to discovering it - and to publishing her book, coincidentally.

She's getting paid $300 an hour, so she's likely not all that motivated to reach the point of enlightenment anytime in the near future. I wish she's hurry up; there's no telling when someone else might want to take a nailgun to me...