Identity Theft
Tamara Morehart’s mail has been coming to my apartment for more than a year now. She receives so much mail, more mail than comes for my roommate and me combined. In the beginning I used to save them just in case she ever dropped by. Then, after many failed attempts at reaching her, the pile got so big I had to get rid of it. Now she’s like the third roommate who is never here. Now, I just read all her mail. It serves as good reading material in the morning with my coffee.
So far, I have learned that she was involved in Scientology, had a job in entertainment, lost her job and received EDD, often parked in red zones, and donated to charities. Her life is so much more interesting than mine. All people would know about me from my mail is that I’m in a lot of debt. Yesterday, Tamara got a package. How exciting! I quickly unwrapped it and found it was a very well-decorated Christmas party invitation.
R.S.V.P soon, it says, and dress in your best festive attire. I want to go. I want to be Tamara Morehart for one day. I’ve been living vicariously through her life since I moved to Hollywood anyway. It’s time I go out and mingle a little.
