watermelon margarita and the existential crisis

We bought a watermelon the other day. This is a very southern thing, and being a westerner, I view it with no small amount of suspicion. In the desert, no fruit would be allowed to hold this much fluid. Not without attracting all manner of beast and foul that would, eventually, spell its doom. Growing up, watermelon was something we found prepackaged in cellophane. I couldn't really figure out what it looked like until I was old enough to piece it all together.

In any case, the point here is that we bought a watermelon, and it turns out they are utter beasts. Not even eating watermelon every day put a dent in this monster. And so I lugged the half we still had up to the kitchen, pulped it, pulverized it in the blender, strained it, and then made watermelon margaritas. The formula went roughly this way:

6 oz. tequila
4 oz. watermelon essence
4 oz. lime juice
1 oz. triple sec
squeeze of agave syrup
turn of the sea salt wheel

Made adjustments with each batch, but this was bout as much as I could get into the shaker at any given time. It was heaven.

Which brings me to the existential crisis. I know this is a simple watermelon margarita, but it was the first one I had and it did not follow the crappy recipes I found online. So I'm claiming it. But I don't have a name for it. Our guests suggested a few names, all of which had my name in it. But I don't want to go there. Instead, I want something that either plays on southern or western themes. But doesn't mix them. Here's what I've come up with:

The Sound and the Fury (Faulkner)
Darl's Potable (also Faulkner)
Evening Redness (McCarthy)
Watermelon Margarita (from the interweb)