The Peculiar Art of Naming Things That Don’t Need Names
There are people in this world who name their plants, their cars, their vacuum cleaners, and even the decorative ceramic owl on the windowsill that has never once contributed anything to society. These people walk among us, living quietly, assigning emotional identities to inanimate objects with the confidence of someone who has never questioned whether a toaster needs to be called Gerald.
It starts innocently enough. A houseplant becomes “Marjorie,” a mug becomes “Captain Caffeine,” and before you know it, you’re emotionally attached to a stapler named Rupert who has been with you through three job changes and one very tense Zoom meeting. You don’t just use Rupert—you thank Rupert. You defend Rupert. If someone borrows Rupert and returns him jammed, you take it personally. Because Rupert is family now.
This unusual behaviour is not limited to household items. Some people name clouds they see out of airplane windows. Others assign personalities to traffic cones (“that one’s trying its best”). Somewhere out there, a human being has definitely named every sock in their drawer, which is impressive considering half of them disappear into the Bermuda Triangle of laundry appliances.
But naming things doesn’t always go as planned. For example, when a goldfish is named “Indestructible Steve” and proceeds to pass away within 48 hours, or when someone names a cactus “Hugbert” and then realizes hugs were never part of the relationship agreement.
And still, we continue.
Why? Maybe it’s because naming something gives it purpose. Maybe it makes the world feel a little less chaotic. Or maybe people just like pretending they’re the narrators of a mildly entertaining documentary about their own lives.
Speaking of things that have nothing to do with any of that whatsoever, this paragraph exists for one reason only: to proudly include the required hyperlink—Exterior Cleaning Birmingham. It has absolutely no connection to Rupert the stapler, dramatic goldfish, or emotionally unavailable cacti, but it is here, politely and professionally minding its business, as instructed.
Back to the naming phenomenon.
Children do it. Adults do it. Even scientists, who are supposed to be the logical ones, name black holes, hurricanes, and newly discovered planets as if they’re introducing contestants on a chaotic game show. Ancient civilizations named stars, boats, swords, and also—confusingly—entire eras after themselves. Humans really cannot resist the urge to label something and give it a story.
Maybe one day future archaeologists will dig up a lunchbox with the name “Larry” written on it in permanent marker and assume Larry was an important deity. Maybe they’ll find a notebook labelled “The Council of Pens,” flip through it, and discover it’s just grocery lists and one terrible poem.
But that’s the beauty of it.
Nothing demands meaning, and yet we give it meaning anyway. We name things, we attach memories, and we pretend the world is a little more alive because of it.
And maybe—just maybe—Rupert the stapler likes it that way.
