Far out in the galaxy lies a small, seemingly insignificant solar system. Within this gaggle of celestial bodies, there are eight known planets (Because some losers who call themselves scientists decided that Pluto is only a dwarf planet. Pfft. Fine. Dwarves are cooler anyway). Among these planets there are more than a hundred known moons. There’s Callisto and Charon; there’s Titan and Tethys; there’s Mimas and Metis. There are hundreds of other bright and brilliant moons, each with its own unique and well-chosen name, right?

WRONG!

Somewhere in the history of the world, someone decided that each specific moon would have its own specific name to be called—except for one. And which one? Our own! The mystic celestial orb we see each night; the vivid object that has been the inspiration of lyricists and lovers alike; the moon! It is our own beautiful moon that has been cursed by mankind to forever live without an identity—to wander namelessly through the night sky and dazzle the very people who gave it such wretched a fate.

It’s ludicrous! Why should our own beloved moon thrive nameless while all of the others are given particular names that each have a special significance chosen especially for them? It’s bad enough that people had the incompetence to demote Pluto as not-quite-a-planet, but couldn’t they have at least had the courtesy to name the moon?

Frankly, it doesn’t even make sense. Unless people are so uneducated that pronouncing a name with more than one syllable is difficult enough for them to wish to simply say “moon,”—which is undeniably likely—then I don’t see why naming the moon is such a problem.

But perhaps I digress. This is not a question of why the moon is nameless, but rather of why I even care. But alas, I have already spent precious minutes writing, so to end my miscellaneous monologue that hardly matters….

NAME THE MOON!