There were times when I was younger that I really disliked my name. Mostly because I couldn't just be Jennie. I had to be Jennie B because there were usually several other Jennies in each of my classes. Jenny M, Jenny R, Jenny W. I guess Jenny W is worse than Jennie B because DAMN that is a lot of syllables.
In fourth grade, I changed the spelling of my name from "Jenny" to "Jennie." My teacher, I remember, thought I was just spelling my name wrong (come on, give me a little credit) until she asked me and I told her I'd changed it to make it more different. If I'd really been thinking, I'd have changed it to Gjhenee or Djenny (the D is silent).
The only time I ever absolutely hated my name was at daycare around Halloween. There were no other Jennies in the entire building, which you'd think would have been a welcome change, but NOT AT HALLOWEEN. That's when we read this book called In a Dark, Dark Room (or something) and in this book there is a story about a young girl named Jenny who marries a young man named Alfred and this young girl named Jenny always wears a green ribbon around her neck and Alfred, of course, won't shut the hell up about it and wants to know WHY she's always wearing a green ribbon around her neck because, let's face it, it's not exactly a flattering look and why did it have to be a green ribbon because pink or purple or blue would have been so much better. Even red! Ooh, actually red would have been pretty fitting. Anyway, so at the end of the story Jenny and Alfred have grown old together and she's never told him why she always wears a green ribbon and I can't remember if she gives him permission or if he just takes it upon himself to do it, but Alfred totally unties the green ribbon and . . . Jenny's head falls off.
Yeah, and so I hated when the teacher read that story aloud NOT because, you know, my head just fell off but because inevitably all I'd hear for the rest of the day were taunts of "Jenny and Alfred sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G," and NOTHING is more humiliating to an eight-year-old than people thinking she might like a boy and even want to (gasp) kiss him. Cooties. Gross. I still maintain that boys have cooties, though. Anyway, luckily there was no little boy at the daycare named Alfred or I think we may have teamed up and taken out the rest of the class. I would have, too; I was a pretty diabolical little kid, it's lucky I didn't turn out to be a serial killer (yet). Ahem. So, yes, at that time of my life I hated my name with a fiery, red hot passion.
Oh, and also when Forrest Gump came out. Movie made my life a living hell, you don't even know.