What's in a name?

I've been toying with the idea of pseudonym. Specifically that I want one for myself but am having trouble coming up with a name. It started last week when I was writing a little opinion piece for the newspaper-- something about certain illegal acts I may have been cited for-- and caught myself censoring, which I hate. At the time I used a mental fix, swearing to leave my identity off the article. Only there are two things wrong with anonymity...
1. It defeats the main purpose of my writing, which is of course to get the much needed attention that a youngest child is accustomed to.
2. It's just no fun.
I've thought about my alias before. Usually the thought occurs at a bar, though, develops into something like "Shamrock" or "Hennessey," and is served with some sort of accent to the creepers-- you know, those ones at the bars that like to pick up girls with such names as "Shamrock" or "Hennessey."
I've also thought about making character names for this blog, a sort of cast list of all my friends and lovers that appear on this page. Then I realized that there are actually very few friends and lovers (make judgments as you will) that come up in my writing. So really, I would only be characterizing myself... which brings me back to this pseudonym.
Once in Italy I sat on a canal-side dock with some Venetian philosophy students, not actually thinking about myself, until one of the guys (in a very chauvinist Italian sort of way) looked at me and said, "You know I've forgotten your name already, but I think you look like a Sarah."
BLAH. I wanted to puke on his greasy, cigarette-dragging smirk. And then I realized, shit, what if he's right? What if I do look like a Sarah?
My friend David swears, on the contrary, I am "such a Josie." And I kind of agree. I feel this way about the names of a lot of people.
My mother, for instance, notoriously answers the telephone with a soprano "He-looo," the rounded vowel carrying out awkwardly for a few seconds as the person on the other end waits for her to breathe. Her name is Melody.
One of my best friends is all of 4 feet 11 inches, a legal midget, but she has the most beautiful long chestnut brown hair and eyes to match. She is a spitfire, Jewish, daughter of a lawyer. Her name is Talia.
And then there's this guy I, suppose, had a fling with a bit back. He is completely New York, Upper West Side, belonging to some obscure eastern religion, sharp model-like features, intent gaze. His name is Julian.
So I'm back to my pseudonym, which is so hard because my parents have given me these three wonderfully out-of-the- ordinary names to play with, shorten, and go by as I choose. And now I want one more. It doesn't have to be perfect, and obviously it won't be "soo me" like my real name. But Sarah? Really? Somehow I'd rather be anonymous.

Question

Does everyone, upon returning from the dry, dizzying, mile-high air of Colorado to the sticky flatness of the Midwest, feel like they've fallen? Like the skyline just doesn't inspire and the boys are all the same?

Creepy

To preface...
This was one of my writing prompts for creative non-fiction class: Write an obituary or eulogy for yourself.
In the interest of not having Oprah hate me, I will gladly say this is not true. Which begs the question... creative nonfiction or just fiction? You decide.

Josie Sexton, 20 years old, beloved daughter, sister, and friend, died yesterday of heart complications tap dancing. Miss Sexton was giving her final recital, a lovely but edgy piece set to the tune of Salt N’ Peppa’s Shoop, when she collapsed to the floor after a series of pirouettes.
“It was her best performance yet,” said roommate and dance partner Hailey Gurvis. “She would have wanted to leave on a high note.”
Miss Sexton, always the performer, had recently taken up tap after trying her hand at couples’ dancing.
“She could tango anyone under the table,” Miss Gurvis said, “waltz, foxtrot, merengue, salsa, you name it.”
According to former coach Steve Yao, the decision to go solo was an important step for Miss Sexton, as a dancer and a young woman. “She always wanted to lead,” Mr. Yao said. “I think she finally realized she was ready to dance on her own.”
Miss Sexton, just two quarters shy of graduating from the Ohio State University, with a double major in International Relations and Spanish and a minor in English, left the school earlier this year to pursue other interests in Spain.
“She was different when she came back to Columbus,” Miss Gurvis said. “She wanted to take tap lessons, writing courses, and work as a waitress. She said she needed to save money to visit Raul.”
Raúl Ramon García Sanchez, Miss Sexton’s Spanish lover, described her as smart and funny, but also the “typical American.”
“She work so hard in Ohio,” Mr. Sanchez said.
Although friends and family attest to Miss Sexton’s relaxed character after returning from Europe, sister Lindsey believes years of stress are hard to undo.
“She used to worry a lot,” Lindsey said, “and I know she was still nervous on that stage, but she truly looked happy.”

If I Had a Shovel

Top 10 things I find myself doing 32 hours into a blizzard...

10. Eating entire Pizza Hut deep dish pizzas and chocolate chip milkshakes
9. Applying the term "stocking up for winter" to rationalize the above
8. Analyzing the later work of M. Night Shyamalan
7. Analyzing a text message
6. Following the weather channel
5. Calling friends with important things to say like "level 3 snow emergency"
4. Listening to cars on High Street spin their wheels
3. Spinning my own
2. Not studying for exams
1. Feeling more claustrophobic than creative
0. Willing someone to call

(I think the snow actually just stopped... but lists are always therapeutic)

Too Late to Apologize?

Dear B,
I just wanted you to know that I did not skip class, wait in the rain, or punch a Republican at the polls today in order to vote for you. And when my dad called me for the second time to go, I did not listen to him. I let you down, sir. But let it be known that I probably won't sleep tonight. And if I do, Hillary's takin' Ohio face will haunt my dreams. And when I wake up tomorrow I pray that my primary sin will be forgiven, that Texas will not have been so unwise.
XoXo,
J

Last Night...

Conversation with the boy.
Him-- at a "dorm party," couldn't hear me over the commotion "Chug it, Jenny.... Who wants to play strip beer pong... Shh I think I hear the R.A.," started to say "I don't know, I'm not sure what I want..."
Me-- in a cab on my way back from Gallery Hop, tingling from the spider roll, twin dragon roll, Lycheelicious martini(s), asked him "Can you go somewhere so I can hear you," heard myself say "We could make an appearance at the dorms," realized what I just said, stopped his rambling with "Call me when you do know..."

A term I learned on "In Treatment" the other night: erotic transference-- common occurrence in psychotherapy in which a patient projects positive feelings and qualities associated with their parents onto the therapist, mistaking the connection for romantic love.

A question for my hypothetical therapist: What exactly am I doing?

On babies

My mom asked me the other day if I was "corrupting" a nineteen-year-old. I didn't know how to respond. Four years ago she was toying with the term to keep me from sleeping over at Randy's. Two years ago she was threatening with it to keep me from dating Revan. And last year she was lamenting it to keep me broken-up with Chris. Is that what it takes? Three relationships to turn me from object to agent in the act of "corruption." Or did something else solidify the end of her last daughter's relative innocence?