For most of the day I didn't have any identification. I'd left it in a friend's car, so it was no big deal, but I had places to go, so I was out traveling in the world without any ID. Nothing happened. This is not the blog entry about my trying to explain to the cops that I own a car. This is not the entry about how my looks made me much more dishonest than I am. This is not the post about how I was put in a holding cell, again. Nor is it about the fact that I had to fight my way out, vigilante style, and that now I'm on the lam. This blog post is not being written from an internet cafe somewhere down the central coast with a gun by my side, a sixteen year old runaway listening to tunes behind me, and a car of some kind I couldn't even tell you about, but which was most assuredly stolen. That post isn't happening. Rather, I kept thinking to myself, as I drove and walked and fucked round out there in the real world of daylight and electricity, how that if I died, if somehow I had an accident, or just died, just boom, like people do, that no one would know who I was. There'd be no proof that I was who I was. No proof of anything.
For the day, I told people my name was Steve, and Steve was an interesting man. Who could argue?