8.11

Whenever I think about how the Egyptians had 3 names that functioned on different levels of privacy, I think about my telephone number.
 Especially now that our numbers are just saved away, hidden behind names, nicknames and emoji drunkenly typed to help you remember that Holly is the sexy dancer and Alice is the raccoon hunter, I feel like I am hosting some sort of secret life. Especially now that most of my private conversations are done through my phone, or can be accessed through my phone, and that phone number is connected to a giant, nameless corporation that can make enough excuses to look at those conversations and only possibly be breaking some sort of privacy law. Because, let's be honest, I have no clue what terms and conditions I have accepted.
 Especially now that technology has matured to a point where I document my appearance daily and my diet fairly regularly, and can privately show them to my friend and probably some giant, nameless corporation in an instant, or let them sit on my phone until they go into my computer to sit until that computer dies, and I forget about them.
 Especially now that I usually get someone's phone number as soon as I decide I would ever want to see them again, or I feel to awkward to say no. Because who says no? and that means I've agreed, on some level, to have interest, on some level, in the idea of sharing aspects of my life with them, or that I already have shared those aspects, and I liked it enough to want more. My telephone digits are almost like an approval stamp on our shared aspects as well as a welcome mat for more. But, somehow, it is as if we then threw our mats from our doorsteps and tossed them in a basement to live on a giant pile of floor mats, because I will literally never look at that mat until some one asks if they can copy it. We are literally working on resolving that issue entirely with tapping our phones together technology.
 Especially now that I remember practicing, on those brown carpet stairs, introducing myself to police officers if I was ever lost. I'd say, "hi my name is booga booga, and I live at ladeedah doodle do. My telephone number is bipbipbipbipbipbipbip. Will you help me call my parents please?", and I let those things shape my identity as a 5 year old. I loved letter writing practice where I rehearsed drawing those beautiful 10 numbers. Their curves and angles were the road map to my communication.
 Especially now that plugging my phone in at night, so that it may recharge while I sleep inches away, is seriously the last thing I do before I also attempt a recharge. Then, together, we tell my loved ones how much they mean to us and how much the bullshit they experienced must suck before we decide we are done for the day. Two minutes later my phone says "buzz buzz" which stands for "well maybe", and sometimes we squint into the bright abyss of notifications before it becomes too much.