a friends wedding where I met a guy who knew her personally. In the early aughts, the big social media site was Friendster. Expatriate living in Namibia.
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I read, girls in Trucks. She was listed; I wasnt. And for a moment, I am sure of everything. Over and over, I explained to her confused friends that I was not her. And then, last year, she wrote an essay titled, the Other Me admitting that she deleted the e-mails and cant stand the thought that somehow Im a better or, worse, identical version of herself. When people looked up my number in the phone book, their messages were inevitably left on her machine.
Upon visits to local San Francisco establishments, such as Kabuki Spring Spa, I found that our contact information was scrambled in their systems. Netflix queue, a form of identity theft. Her unwillingness to engage with me frankly made the situation even more fascinating. New York Times best-selling author and that could have been my story. I nearly went into.