I Am Dendie

Despite what you may see on my deceptively shiny, official-looking plastic card that gives me driving privileges, my first name is not Emma, dull, buzzing, and monotonous. Despite the fact that you may completely trust my parents to embellish me with a middle name along the lines of Jeannette Jennita or Roseanne Riabelle, a slice of baloney one week past its expiration date resides between two slices of stale bread. Ann. Despite what I want you to think about the final two syllables of this spoiled sandwich of a name, I only taste the first. The final sound is a blip, an afterthought, a half-formed decoration, like when you realize that you haven't beaten the egg whites enough and your lemon meringue pie has a meltdown. Despite the fact that you may believe that I wish to throw the entire sandwich into the trash can with perfect aim, I do not aim to throw perfectly. The sandwich will strike the edge and send a crumb soaring like a basketball that just misses the basket. Dendie. It bounces.