It is beginning to get to the stage where I am getting sick of telling people why my name is Fury!

It originated when the person I was seeing at the time, Blast, tried to call me “furry” but misspelt it. This was because my legs are veritable forests of gold hair.

After that, it sort of just stuck.

Truth is, I like the name.

I’ve had a lot of responses to introductions.
“Were your parents those crazy hippy types?”
No. My dad is a dentist and my mother votes for Key.

“Like after the Gladiator?”
No, not like after Gladiators.

“Like after the furies?”
I like this better, but still no.

“Anger management?”
Ha. Ha. No.

“Like, Nick Fury?”
No, not like Nick Fury.

“Are you an X-men?”
Yes. But that’s not why I’m called Fury.

Once the fury/furry story is recounted, people then go on to ask the following.

“Haha. So your name is actually furry!”
No. My name is actually Fury.

“I’m going to call you furry.”
Please do not call me furry. It is not what anyone else calls me, nor is it the name that I want to be called.

“So, what’s your real name?”

“Yeah but what’s your REAL name?”
Fury. It’s still Fury.

I never was particularly bothered with telling people the name on my passport, but as time goes by it seems more and more like people want to define me by a word that I don’t define myself by anymore.

If you wanna know, become my friend. It will turn up at some point. By then, hopefully, you will be too busy enjoying my company to be wrapped up in the letters that were inked on my behalf to try to encapsulate me yonks ago when I wasn’t even sentient enough to know what a name was.