Growing up with the name Bunn was such a chore. In grade school, I was afraid that the kids would mix up my name with butt or bum. Whenever I had a new crush, I would try out my name with his name, eager to get rid of the horrid name of Bunn.
In high school, I had an idiot of a biology teacher. He asked me why my parents didn't name me hotdog or hamburger. Seriously, he was an idiot.
In college, I had a friend who never called me by my first name, but always called me, "Bunn." And a friend at Oxford added an "s," dubbing me "Bunns." Somehow, through all that, I started to like my last name.
Today, as I was purchasing something at the Duck Store, I had to spell out my name. "It's Bunn. B-U-N-N, like the coffee maker. The people behind the counter were clueless. Perhaps Bunn coffee makers are over.
One of my favorite Bunn moments in the past week was when my interview partner asked me, "What kind of a name is Bunn?" He was actually trying to ask about my heritage but I answered, "Well, I don't know. It's a weird one, I guess, but it's my name."
Being a Bunn is fun. I don't really mind the jokes I used to fear. This afternoon, a friend actually asked me if when my mom was pregnant with me if they joked about having a Bunn in the oven. I laughed. It IS funny.
I like being a Bunn. My name is fun. Granted, it ties me to some crazy right-wingers, but that's okay. It's just life.
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