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For my nineteenth birthday, I dragged my friends to a rock bar, and then a rock club, drank a likely obscene amount of vodka, put eyeliner on my bandmate, and moshed the night away with a big guy with a mohawk. Maybe I made out with him, that sounds like teenage me, but I don’t remember.

I was too drunk to type his name into my phone properly, so he got saved as ‘a Lex’.

I liked that too much to change it in the cold light of day, even when he confirmed his true name. I explained the situation and asked if I could call him Lex. He wasn’t into it but still wanted to go out.

We went out. It was a decidedly underwhelming date. He drove me home and asked if he could kiss me. I wasn’t into it but I wanted to have a boyfriend called Lex, goddammit, so maybe I could make this work.

We kissed. It was a decidedly underwhelming kiss. He wasn’t a Lex. Of course he wasn’t. He was Alex. That’s what he was bloody well trying to tell me!

It was easy to fall back in love with him when I went inside and it was just his misspelled name on a screen again, but that could only be sustained for a couple of days, and so we went our separate ways in life. I wish him well.

Is this the most ridiculous story I’ve told on here? There are some contenders.

Anyway, all this to say I can fall in love with a name. Especially, apparently, if that name is Lex.

Which was an amusing remembrance for me, given the fact that I am 100%, off the deep end, in love with MIT-affiliated-computer-scientist-and-popular-podcast-host-turned-Amazon-jungle-explorer Lex Fridman.

Now, I don’t think it would make much difference to me if he was actually called Reginald. But I’ll never know, because he’s not: He’s a Lex.

Seems I’m contractually obligated.

The crafty fucker.

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