Welcome to the Tour. You May Be Renamed.

 

Let me confess something up front.

If you spend more than fifteen minutes around me, there’s a chance I won’t call you by your actual name.

It’s not because I’m rude. Or forgetful.

It’s because somewhere between my eyes seeing you and my brain cataloging you, your real name gets… revised.

Not erased—just… reframed.

Personalized.

Upgraded?

Let’s go with "redirected by divine instinct."

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It started young.

I was in high school when I first realized I had this habit—this low-key power.

A girl walked past me once and someone whispered something cruel about her face.

I looked at her—not with meanness, but with curiosity—and said:

“She’s not ugly. She’s just… not pretty.”

The girls laughed. I smirked.

But I wasn’t being shady. I was in scientist mode.

Analyzing symmetry. Features. Vibe.

To me, it was just data. A label from the honesty drawer.

Later, I forgot her name—so I called her “Unpretty.”

She actually responded.

And somehow… the name stuck.

Did I regret it later? A bit.

Not because I meant harm, but because I realized people carried the things I casually handed out.

Even if I wrapped them in wit or shrugged them off, they didn’t always land lightly.

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But still—I nickname people.

Always have.

I once called a coworker Baby Puppy because he was adorable and unbothered and made me smile like a cartoon.

The other women picked up on it—and I had to give them the side eye.

Like:

“Who stamped your passport to cross that border? That was private property.”

It’s not about ownership—it’s about intimacy.

A nickname, in my world, is a claim of connection.

It means:

“I saw something in you. And it made me speak.”

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I do it on tours now, too.

At the start, I’ll tell my guests:

“I’ll try to pronounce your names correctly at least once. But fair warning… I might nickname you.”

And they always laugh.

Until it happens.

There was the couple wearing identical heather-gray shirts:

“The Gray Shirts.”

They lived up to it. Moved in sync. Laughed in harmony.

I couldn’t tell you their real names if you paid me.

There was a Korean guest whose name translated to something like “strong and healthy.”

So naturally, I called him Healthy Man.

He laughed every time. Walked with confidence like the title came with vitamins.

And then there was a man named Corbin.

Only Corbin I’d ever met—outside of Bruce Willis in The Fifth Element.

So I called him Corbin Dallas.

He didn’t even flinch. Just wore the name like a destiny fulfilled.

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But here’s the truth beneath the names:

I don’t nickname people to mock them.

I nickname people because I see them.

Not always who they are on paper, but who they are in the moment.

The vibe. The feeling. The flash of recognition.

“Gray Shirts” was love in matching tones.

“Healthy Man” was linguistic respect laced with admiration.

“Baby Puppy” was softness I didn’t want to admit I adored.

“Unpretty”… well, that one taught me that perception can brand people, even when you don’t mean to.

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So if I give you a nickname, it means you’re real to me.

It means your presence interrupted my routine.

It means I’ll probably remember you in five years—not your name, but your essence.

Not your title, but the way you moved or smiled or radiated something I couldn’t name fast enough, so I made one up.

So… welcome to the tour.

Welcome to my life.

You may be renamed.

And trust me,

it’s always meant with love.

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