Identity.

Today I tried to find myself online (that seems like it will be a philosophy course sometime soon. Damn existential philosophers. Damn assistant Existential Philosophy professor who gave me a B+). No pretending that I haven't Googled myself a thousand times before, but this time I was a targeted missile looking for my past addresses. And there was nothing! What is this about identity theft and the "surprising amount of information available about you on the Interweb"? That's a big honkin' lie. Unless you're willing to pay for it.

(This seems to be becoming an unintentionally dirty post. Huh.)

Someone is doing a background check on me and required my past addresses for the past seven years. People just don't trust the people they date anymore.

Ha. Was one of the work places that want to make sure I don't have a sordid criminal past that makes me unfit to counsel childrens. I cover my tracks better than that.

I couldn't remember the exact addresses for my last two apartments prior to moving to DC. But I remember them so well. Why can't they just take a lovely description of my memories of these places and be happy?

Apartment #1, when I was in that "interim period," still on Daddy's payroll, was a sweet pad. Except for the buckling hardwood floors, moist walls and no air-conditioning. I mean, aside from that. I remember the sunlight that came in and the clawed bath and the bathroom that seemed to glow, it was so white with perfect windows. I remember falling in love with K in that apartment. I remember not getting into graduate school, but getting my first, real full-time job in that apartment. I remember getting locked out late at night and waiting for the night guy to finally come unlock it at six in the morning and really feeling the glitter on my face, remnants of red lips and the sexy (skanky in the daylight) top I was wearing.

I just can't remember the street number.

Apartment #2 was the one I lived in when I quit my first full-time job and got into grad school and realized K was always going to be a disappointment and the hurt would always be there, unintentional or not. I remember the fireplace that was not suppose to work, but did, goddamnit. And the little nook with the half circle of windows where I stacked my books and pretended it was a book room and the fire-escape where I grew a tomato plant that never bore fruit,but the stem grew and grew and grew in this spindly way and kept growing and growing upwards, but never outwards and never leaves or fruit. There's a symbolism in that, but my brain is tired.

I can't remember the street number or the street. But I remember being on a call for hours, trying to talk a stranger out of taking that next handful of pills and to please go wake up his boyfriend and I will stay on this phone until you don't feel so alone anymore.

Why doesn't that count for a background check?