Build Date: Wed Feb 11 02:10:13 2026 UTC
As a writer, I kick your flabby ass to China and back. Your articles are rolling over and BEGGING my articles not to tear through their soft underbellies and slurp up their intestines like so much spaghetti. Your articles call my articles "sir." Your articles pull their dripping assholes WIDE for my articles' slightest pleasure.
-- Siduri
Marked for Deletion
2000-11-08 19:44:24
From the mixed up files of citizen 566-77-0776
[Author's Note: When I found out Social Security had issued me the same social security number as another woman with the same name, birth date and father's name, I figured it wouldn't be a cakewalk getting myself digitally separated from this numeric soul twin. But for as easy it is to screw something so critical up, you'd think Social Security would be bending over backwards to try to help me get a number of my own. Not like this institution is going to be providing much in the way padding in my later years, but the idea of fighting over crumbs upon retirement with The Other did not ring pleasant upon my ears. Constantly facing loan and credit card rejections for The Other's bad credit history was no carnival either. The process of becoming a unique and separate entity with a clean credit and employment history of my own may not leave you on the edge of your seat. However, I hope it shocks you, upsets you and inspires you to name your child something ridiculous enough not to be imitated. ]
Dateline, Nov. 1, 1970
Five days were up. We were still stuck in the hospital, mom and I. Still, no name. Thinking...thinking... Heather? Amber? Not swinging enough, too freaky. How about something more pop, something eaassy on the ears, something nobody will make fun of. Something you can reduce, alter, adjust according to mood, social standing and fashion of the day.
"Got it. !#IY$I#O !Q)(%). Bingo."
"Got it. !#IY$I#O !Q)(%).
Bingo."
The echoes rang down the hall into the next delivery room.
Signed, stamped and swaddled, I left the hospital, unknown to my parents that replication had occurred. Two identical names, birth dates and like father's names were cranked into U.S. department of Social Security's data storehouses. Whether manually chosen or churned out by a hand cranked machine, out came one number for Baby x and Baby y. One number. Two entities. There we were bound by numbers as we set off into a history of taxable income, car purchases, mortgages and student loans, creating a matrix of interwoven identities.
My digital Siamese Twin was not to be fully revealed for three whole decades.
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