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You ever invent something and it makes you super duper famous but also is the bane of your existence because you, the genius inventor, become completely secondary compared to said invention? I know right? It’s so annoying!

My name is Dr. Victor Frankenstein, and I am the revolutionary who created that amalgamated monster you people all so familiarly call Frankenstein. But let me tell you something about that pile of green flesh, old bones, and rusty bolts… he has no name. Because I very specifically didn’t name him.

How come nobody knows that I am the one worthy of your fear and respect?

I am the genius. He is a lump of spare mechanic parts and things I borrowed from the morgue.

I am the professional without equal. He is prototype without an off button.

I am the creator of life. He is the barely functioning form that couldn’t create anything more than a scene.

It’s a classic case of irony, which might make me laugh if it weren’t such a cruel fate… to live eternally relegated to punchlines. And I still couldn’t crack Alanis Morissette’s top 20 examples of irony? Damn you, you whiny Canadian wench. Respect my struggle!

You spend years and years of your life at school (Transylvania Med School, class of 1802. Go Impalers!) studying, observing, tinkering—and NOT ONCE do they warn you about branding or copyright law. But sure, they never forget to call me bi-annually to donate to the general scholarship fund. What a joke. Man, this really gets me—DOCTOR VICTOR FRANKENSTEIN—heated.

In addition to my resentment toward the monster himself, I have an especially strong animus in my heart for my advisor, Dr. Davidoff, who oversaw my experiments. She (the mother was the doctor, #feminism) may have been instrumental in the operating room but clearly never cared for me enough to give two hoots about my legacy.

I understand that by even talking about my creation I violate the privacy clauses of HIPAA, but who cares? Doctors work grueling hours, and I lost my lust for medicine—and my entire practice—over a century ago.

Am I ruining my reputation? I wish I even had one to ruin!

Do you know how hard it is to make a reservation under the name Frankenstein? Do you have any idea of the laughs I get at the DMV? Go ahead and guess how many second dates I’ve had. I’ll give you a clue; it’s not a lot.

I should have invented something less important, like the Slap-Chop. I bet Dr. Slap-Chop is a regular at Nobu and gets laid all the time.

I don’t want to go around calling people out by name, so let’s just say there is an international organization that gives out awards for physics, chemistry, and medicine whose repeated snubs reflect far more on their triviality than my own.

Meanwhile, the way I was treated by the mainstream media was as unfair as any doctor ever! Whenever my monster wreaked havoc, they were happy to put my name beside it. But when my monster accomplished more than any other monster had ever accomplished, no one ever gave commendation or thanks for my expertise. It was all credited to that damned monster!

I created a monster, but you people have turned me into a monster, as well. I once had a mind dedicated to helping others and creating an advanced world. I was never motivated by fame until it was taken from me. I just wanted my fair share of acknowledgement. Now I lay here, strapped into a bed, screaming my story to anyone who will listen.

It’s a lie! It’s a lieeeeeee!

Josh Bard

Josh Bard is a guy. A sports guy, an ideas guy, a wise guy, a funny guy, a Boston guy, and sometimes THAT guy. Never been a Guy Fieri guy, though.

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