Pet peeves.

Everybody has them.

Some nincompoops simply refuse to wait in any kind of line. Other people go crazy at the sound of someone cracking their knuckles.

And I absolutely despise people who take the liberty of shortening my name from "Jonathan" to "Jon."

Such abhorrent, inconsiderate behavior gets me as frazzled as the prospect of an organic chemistry exam. As riled up as I become after the Celtics lose another thriller at the buzzer.

Come to think of it, I'd rather have you throw me into the Charles River on a frigid February morning than chop the last five letters off my first name.

Yes I'm exaggerating a bit. But I honestly believe that "Jonathan" is the name most victimized by laziness. Sure, it's easier to say "Mike" instead of "Michael," or Debbie instead of "Deborah." But occassionally Michael and Deborah manage to emerge from conversations with their names intact. Unfortunately for the Jonathans of America, dropping the last two syllables of our three-syllable name might as well be a national pastime.

Last month, I kept tabs on the first 10 times I introduced myself as "Jonathan." And what did I hear from nine of you buffoons during those conversations? "Nice to meet you, JON!" "Surely, JON." "How interesting, JON."

Oy vey. At last they thought I was interesting.

It's not that I claim to be special, or too good for the name "Jon." But it just doesn't sound right for me. I like to be thought of as somewhat distinguished, and I'd rather not share the spotlight with the masses who go by the name "Jon."

I almost feel that people are slighting me, or not taking me seriously, when they call me "Jon," as if they are thinking they can get away with anything less than the real McCoy. "Jon" is the bare minimum--the shortest abbreviation of my name those butchers could possibly shrink it to and still get my attention.

If they shortened it to "Jo, " or even the letter "J", I wouldn't know who the heck they were addressing. A "Joseph" or "Jay" perhaps, but not a "Jonathan." So I'm left with people calling me "Jon" wherever I go.

And I've had enough. Unfortunately, I've always found it difficult to justify to friends my near-allergic reaction to the name "Jon." They laugh at me--because I let them call me almost anything else.

For most of my life, nicknames have taken over my identity, I have answered to nicknames more often than I have to my real name. This barrage started in my youngest years with my family. In fact, I was doomed from day one--when I emerged from my mother's womb as a "little bubula."

Most children pick up an extra name or two along the way. But for me, the list grew to ridiculous lengths. Maybe my parents splurged on nicknames out of their guilt for depriving me of a middle name.