I wish my name started with a hard consonant. You know the ones I’m talking about: B, D, G, T, V, and Z. They’re a built-in nickname.

The other day, I saw a friend that I’ve known for fifteen years. His name is Damian. I said, “What’s up, D?” That’s never been an officially-sanctioned nickname for him. But he knew I was talking to him.

Nobody has ever walked up to me and said, “What’s up, M?” It sounds ridic. My last name starts with P. There is one guy at work who calls me “Master P.” But this is the same guy that I’ve had a running argument with for two years about who would win in a fight between a badger and a wolverine.

Even P is kind of suspect. It’s not really hard or soft. Kind of ambiguous. It’s like the metrosexual of consonants. P, C, and V are all kind of weaksauce.

If you think about it, all of the terms for a certain region of the female anatomy start with those metrosexual consonants. I’m, of course, referring to the crotchal area. The P one is a synonym for a cat. The letter C kicks things off for one of the more offensive four-letter words in our language. And V… well, that one is a legit anatomical term so I can just come out and say it. Vagina. Vuh-jay-jay.

Our dog’s name is Joey. We used to call him either J-Bird or Joe-Joes. Somehow that became Vuh-jay-jay. Unrelated.

So what do I have left? My middle name? That starts with an R. And R is so soft, it might as well be a fucking vowel. I need a nickname.

A couple friends who are too lazy to fully enunciate all seven of the syllables in seven-son-seventy-five have referred to me as “Sev.” Hence, SocialSev. I’m OK with that.

I don’t know if it’s customary to assign yourself a nickname, but nobody else is doing it. And if you walk up to me and say, “What’s up, M,” I’ll probably punch you right in the nose. Unless you could whup my ass. Which is most of Northwest Ohio.

Stupid metrosexual initials.