It’s a real pleasure to meet you. I’m happy to shake your hand. I’ll be the first to hold open a door if we’re going somewhere. It’s a fact that I often smile agreeably. I’m not exaggerating when I say exchanging “pleases” and “thank yous” and “you’re welcomes” leave me feeling all warm and tingly—in every season of the year—down to the very tips of my toes.

But there’s a flip side to that coin. If, in the course of our meeting, I introduce myself, and you hear “Blah blah Casper,” and you take it upon yourself to smirk and quip, “Oh, are you friendly?” I must warn you that an unpleasant reception will follow. I will narrow my eyes. I will clench my teeth. I will snort, loudly and repeatedly, like a constipated bull released after being trapped in his pen too long. At which point, I will slap the table. Loud. There will be flinching. You will probably spew your drink.

And then, only then, will I yell: “Friendly! You tell me? Do I seem friendly!”

The maniacal cackling that follows has been known to inspire pee stains, and transform even the rosiest faces, white.

Oh, which reminds me!

As cheery as many folks find me to be—offering helpful tips about the weather, kibitzing about our local sports teams—there is another thing you should know so that our meeting is not a complete and utter disaster. When in the course of telling you what I am called, if you say something like, “Oh, you mean, Casper like the ghost?” I will not return your giggle.

I will nod slowly, lulling you into a false sense of comfort. I will shock you by shrieking like a banshee. I will transform my body into a tornado of writhing: my limbs flying around in such an aggressive and reckless manner that everyone within range will run for shelter, clutching their dearest possessions, as I flop, exorcist-style, spinning my head as far as it will go. I will return to the table and, once again, slap it hard.

“There,” I often say, this time in a creaky whisper, “Was that ghost enough for you?”

I hope none of this gives you the wrong idea about me. I doubt we would even notice one another if we passed on the street as strangers. If we sat side by side nameless at a bar, and I sipped my Cab Franc and you sipped yours, we might even have a moment—yes, the two of us—we might have one beautiful little moment together, where we raised our eyebrows and shimmied our shoulders to a bluesy saxophone moan coming from that speaker over there in the corner.

But that doesn’t mean I would ever forgive you for attacking my entire identity, all for your own self amusement. Attacking half of my identity, anyway. Maybe only a third, if you want to get technical, and count middle names.

The point is, any attempt at levity about my name, no matter how light hearted, comes at a cost. Just try to imagine yourself in my position. Imagine an entire lifetime being orally assaulted with corny joke after corny joke, all due to some ugly twist of fate in which a beloved children’s cartoon character—“Casper the Friendly Ghost”—was forever tied to your family lineage.

Would not your soul become haunted, too? I’ll take your silence as a “yes.”

The point is, my existence is tragic. I have no one left to love me anymore. Is there anyone out there ready to commit themselves and join me in this Sisyphean pursuit to reclaim my honor, surname-wise, until the day I die?

That doesn’t have to be a rhetorical question. If you’re even just a little bit interested, please do let me know. I’m a really good listener. And it might sound funny, but getting to know people is one of my all-time favorite things.