Hormones, Passports And Other Ways I Lose My Shit

I need a vacation.  I was thinking about going to some exotic Asian-y country with a fancy backpack and some high-end Cannon.  And then I thought, “Hey, I’m 40!”  That means I have the right to spend a week sitting by the pool in a third-world country sipping alcohol out of a hollowed out piece of tropical fruit (pineapple, coconut…may not work with a mango) and go into a coma (a good one, not like a “Facebook” one).   I was about to book my flight, when I suddenly remembered this whole Passport Issue…shit.

Where’s my freaking passport?  Something about me and passports. Maybe I was an undercover CIA agent in a past life (maybe? Me and Jason Bourne…). Now all that remains is the compulsive need to lose them, as if trying to shed my own identity.

I also recently lost my driver’s license. At this moment I, actually, have no documentation of my existence on this planet.   My web presence may have to suffice if I suddenly decide to disappear.

“Who is this Solange?” the Important People would ask.  “There’s no record of her life…except for her Yearbook, photos, and hundreds of journals.  Oh, and her active Facebook, Twitter, and Linked In accounts, not to mention her long-running blog….but how do we know if she REALLY exists if she doesn’t have a social security card?”

Just for today, I need a vacation.

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