At age twenty I was engaged to a wealthy heiress who strongly urged me to her last name upon our immanent nuptials. I considered it briefly but just couldn’t see myself as a “Hilton” so I stuck with Brent Diggs even though it cost me a fortune.
For my nineteenth birthday I received my first asterisk. All year long I proudly wrote my name as Brent Diggs*.
When I was eighteen I was abducted by aliens. They apologized for being out of proctologic probes but subjected me instead to a three month marathon of Hallmark movies. Upon my return to earth I was immediately grounded for being out seven months beyond curfew. Never was I so glad to hear the words, “Brent Diggs get in here this minute.”
At seventeen I changed highschools and introduced myself to my new art class as “Diggs…Brent Diggs.”
To my embarrassment, everyone found this to be extremely funny and proceeded to refer to me for the rest of the year as” James Bond.”
The name Brent Diggs spent its entire sixteenth year in storage, virtually unused as I responded instead to the title “dude.”
At fifteen I ran away to join the circus. The ringmaster explained to me that they already had one Brent Diggs and that by circus tradition if they took me on we both would have to fight to the death. The other Brent was their Bearded Lady and I was pretty sure I could take her, but I didn’t want to get typecast so I went home.
My fourteenth year was spent in a media induced comma in which I hallucinated vividly that I was Brent Diggs, the long lost member of the A-Team.
Throughout my tenth and eleventh years my name remained firmly and stolidly Brent Diggs, but somewhere around year twelve I suffered an identity crisis thanks to certain aunts, uncles, and one complete stranger who inappropriately insisted on referring to me as Snookie Bear.
Things were reassuringly changeless for my name, Brent Diggs, throughout years seven, eight, and nine. This was real relief after my previous name related drama.









