I'm tired. Of people. People who think they know everything, can't be wrong, masking the wrong, hiding it. They are everywhere. They crawl up my sleeves and give me that tingling feeling. They spend their money and say no to sales ploys. They don't know I work on commission now. They can't carry any ID because they had to walk around. Then they see my wallet full of identification on my way home from work. I'll bet they're staring at it...with my tie and nice Oxford shirt they must think I'm rich; or that I'm a glorified clerk and salesman; or that I like it. They must wonder how I do it, carrying all of that heavy identification around. Scary thoughts. Just how do you forget your ID, anyway? I find it impossible. Those cards, slips of laminated paper, printed and embossed nicely or not at all, adorning pictures of you, or what was once you, your beautiful smile or ugly mug, your profile, are the proof that you exist. Not in corporeal form, but in all form. They are proof of your name and proof of your ancestry. Proof of your standing in society; a ticket to the caste party. How could you forget them? Someone did. Because they were walking to the Shack on a Wednesday morning. Needed a phone. Couldn't talk her into a wireless. Bought a spare phone cord. Sweet. Has a credit card...but no ID. And the card needs reactivating. Wow.