Sept 4, 7:35 am.

Ach Du Lieber, it happened. It finally happened. I’ve been dreading this event ever since I watched the movie, Single’s Ward, for the first time, and realized the cruelty that my diabolical parents inflicted upon me in the form of my first name.

It is (I kid you not), Molly.

If you’re not Mormon, you do not know the significance of this epithet. Let me explain.

“Molly” is a derogatory term for a girl who is Mormon, who is also a goody-two-shoes, a wet blanket, a hypocritical fun-sucker. That is what my parents condemned me to—a lifetime label that will probably spinsterize me.

Not that I’m thinking about marriage just yet. I have to pass the ninth grade, first.

Anyway, I’ve been dreading being in a class with other Mormons for this reason. My friend Marsie was the only Mormon at my elementary school, and she’s my friend, so she’d never tease me like that.

Confirming the worst of my fears, as soon as the teacher called out my name, ugly pants boy snickered, looked at me, and started whispering to his friend again. The other kids in the class looked surprised, and a few of the girls gave me pitying glances. I’m sure I turned beet red.

Ironically, I learned recently, while googling something completely unrelated (that’s how I gain most of my education), that “Molly” can also be a derogatory term outside of Mormon culture. It’s probably not used much, anymore-- I think it’s more of an old-fashioned thing.

But, anyway (don’t be shocked by this, now), it also means a prostitute. Which is about the furthest thing from what it means in Mormon culture.

I’m kind of wondering which one I’d prefer, if I had a choice. But it’s a moot point-- I don’t have a choice.

Maybe if I told my parents what I found out online, they’d let me legally change my name.