When I was driving Amy out to LA, we stopped at a gas station in the middle of goddamned nowhere. When we went up to pay, behind the counter was a fat, ruddy girl of 19 or 20, and her name-tag read "Magon."
"So, I gotta ask, how'dya say your name?" I venture.
"Megan. When I was born, my dad didn't know how to spell Megan."
For the next day and a half, Amy and I recounted the adventures of GON and MAGON.