My identity got stolen… again. It happened first in 2007 with my bank card, and again this morning when I signed onto my credit card’s website and questioned if I had really purchased $4,000 in garments from a Norwegian clothing store with a name that when pronounced, makes you sound like you’re either vomiting, or yodeling, or maybe both at the same time. No, I thought, never been to Norway, and I’m still wearing my unemployment uniform (wife beater and underwear), so the red flags went up.
Everything’s taken care of, and no, contrary to popular belief, I didn't hand out my card to a stranger or enter it into some shady website or give it to the nice Nigerian man who informed me I’m inheriting $18 billion via e-mail. In the past month, I haven’t even bought anything; see the previous posts in which I bitch about not having money.
Ironically enough, my non-writing career path has always been IT, specializing in IT security, so not only am I pretty confident of what NOT to do with my credit card, my laptop is so secure the only thing it’s missing is a barbed wire perimeter and a big fat guy who’s not quite buff, in a t-shirt two sizes too small, standing out front with a headset, his arms crossed, and a smirk.
As I understand it, well, these things just kinda happen. Most people I know have had their identity stolen at least once in their life… I’m just extra lucky, perhaps.
But it made me wonder… who the hell would want to be me? Now don’t get me wrong, this isn’t a question of self esteem. I’m very self confident, as evident by my chiseled body, movie star good looks, and my dynamo ability in the sack (ladies?), but from a financial standpoint, well… see the previous posts in which I bitch about not having money.
And yes I know, what I lack in money, I make up for in love and friends and blah blah blah crap
The point is that a homosexual Norwegian (who else would want $4k in clothes?) wants to be me. And to him I say… good luck. You have just assumed the role of an unemployed writer whose current highlight of the day has been watching the fat guy on Man Vs. Food try to stuff a 2 foot tall hamburger in his gob, who might spend the next half hour playing a video game or applying for jobs he doesn’t qualify for or scratching himself, or hell, maybe all three at once because he can multi-task like a motherfucker. And on tonight’s dining menu, well, tonight’s a special treat. My personal Chef (his name is Boyardee) is whipping up his world famous ravioli. It’s either garnished with a white wine pesto with a hint of sage and garlic… or stale tomato paste. I can’t quite recall which.
If you're still interested, gay Norwegian, the job is yours. It's lunch time and the TV dinner's already getting cold in the microwave. Plus, I hear another string of bad daytime judge shows is about to come on. Wait, where are you going? Kom tilbake hit homofil norske! (Come back here homosexual Norwegian)
Crap. Guess I gotta keep being me.
So... here's a toast to 27 years of being me, and a toast to 27 more if the alcohol or the gout or poor decision making doesn't take me first.
Drinking: Blod av et lite barn
Shower: Varm og lun
The author's wardrobe of choice while watching Judge Judy.