Time and time again the question keeps popping into my head; “What is my address?”
I know what you’re probably thinking: YOU SHOULD KNOW YOUR ADDRESS!
Friends, I’m here to tell you that not everyone knows their own address, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. There are a plethora of reasons why an individual may not know their own address. In my case, I suffer from a Traumatic Brain Injury that affects my memory.
A little about me: I attended Duke University on a Football Scholarship. I had one foot in the realm of academia (I was studying Epistemology and the thesis I was working on had groundbreaking insights into both Kant and Hegel, as well as a solid refutation of some early theories of Spinoza) and my other foot was in Football.
I was a force to be reckoned with. I had both the brains and the body; men and women alike fawned over me and wanted desperately to be my lover. I am bi-sexual so this attention was welcome, however I am also very discerning when it comes to affairs of the heart. Even though I had dozens, perhaps hundreds of male and female suitors, I only became intimate with 9 of them; 6 males and 3 females. I had an open relationship with all of them at the same time.
Now, you may be thinking that my traumatic brain injury was caused by playing football. However, you’d be very wrong in that assumption. I was so adept at catching the ball, and my speed was so lightning fast that I was never tackled, not once. My brain injury resulted from something else entirely.
When I was in the midst of my 9 love affairs I’d show affection in the form of baking. I’m not one for pecks on the cheek or hugs or the like. My favorite baked good to prepare for my male and female companions was banana bread. As you can imagine, with 9 lovers to bake for, there were never ending loaves of banana bread being prepared. This also meant that there were a plethora of banana peels laying on my kitchen floor. It was inevitable that one day I’d slip on a peel…and finally after 4 years of making my banana breads, I did slip on a peel. It was on the day I was supposed to present my thesis on Kant and Hegel to the thesis committee.
I slipped on a stray peel and my head hit the floor. Blood was gushing and I saw small fragments of skull and brain matter on the ground. I was so determined to present my research to the committee and defend my groundbreaking thesis that I ignored medical treatment and rushed to school. I wore a dark colored beanie to soak up the blood and brain matter that was leaking from my skull.
My adrenaline was rushing and I felt no pain as I defended my controversial refutation of Kant’s third formulation. It was a tough committee. They threw me many curveballs in the midst of my defense. I was forced against my will to justify my positions through the lens of Dialectical Materialism. Luckily my keen research into both Hegelian and Marxist dialectical traditions paid off. The committee was impressed with my defense and even complimented me on my stylish beanie. I was awarded my Master’s Degree in Philosophy. It was 4pm and I felt relieved…until I remembered that that championship game of the football season was to take place at 6pm.
I rushed across campus to the football field and placed the helmet over my injured head. The tight inner padding of the helmet rubbed against my exposed brain matter. It hurt like hell, but I was determined to win this game for the home team.
Fastforward to 8pm and we’ve won the NCAA Championships. I was proud, but also concerned about my injury.
There’s a well-equipped hospital not even one mile from Duke’s football field. I ran there as fast as I could. I was taken directly to the ICU when I showed the receptionist my fractured skull.
A doctor came to my side and told me I had suffered a traumatic brain injury. “What the hell!…How is that possible?” I screamed at the doctor. I was enraged. “In many cases we can avoid traumatic brain injuries, but it appears that you rubbed something against the exposed brain matter. Is this possible?””Doctor, it was just a beanie and then a football helmet, that’s all!'”That’s all it takes, son.”The doctor was sympathetic and rubbed my shoulders in a loving, fatherly way. “It’s not so bad. Many people live full lives even with traumatic brain injuries. But you will need to learn how to adapt. For example, you’ll never remember what your address is from now on.”
I was devastated. I felt droplets forming in my eyes. I had no control over my emotions. A deluge of tears began streaming down my face. The doctor hugged me. “How will I ever know what my address is?” I pleaded.The doctor shrugged and in that moment I felt myself slip away into unconsciousness. It had been a long day and I was dead tired.
In the morning I was discharged from the hospital. I hailed a taxi cab. “Where to?” said the gruff driver.I couldn’t remember what my address was.”WHERE TO BUDDY?””I…I don’t know”The driver was angry now. “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY CAB!”I was lost and had no idea where I lived. The detrimental side effects of this traumatic brain injury were already wreaking havoc on my life!
Figuring out where I lived seemed hopeless. I walked endlessly until I stumbled upon a realtor’s office. They set me up with a new home. I got settled in. Tidied up. Made the space livable.
As I used the lovely kitchenette to make my inaugural loaf of banana bread, I realized that I had no idea what my new address was. Out of desperation I searched google. “What is my address?” A bunch of garbage came up. Then I clicked on the link for whatismyaddress.org …and it was that easy.It told me EXACTLY what my address was. “This is a godsend” I thought to myself, “a great website for someone like me.”
I got accustomed to my new life at my new home. I lost contact with my 9 lovers, as I had forgotten my old address and didn’t know how to reach them. I was also embarrassed about my brain injury. I didn’t want to go on a lengthy diatribe explaining what had happened. They were good lovers, but I knew I could do better. I set about finding a new set of lovers to keep me company. Using a popular online dating service I made dates with several dozen people of various genders.
Of the 53 people I went on dates with, I decided to continue seeing 14 of them. After the courting period, we’d get to that awkward moment where they’d ask where I live. “Dammit!” I’d think to myself. “Ok, well what is your zip code? Your neighborhood? Your county?” they’d often follow up with. “Shit!” I’d think. I was the perfect date in every other way; highly intelligent, very attractive and extremely wealthy. But my Achilles’ Heel was my inability to remember my own address. I’d awkwardly excuse myself and rush to a toilet stall to look up my address on whatismyaddress.org.
The first time I did this, we were dining at Pietro’s Pizzeria in Philadelphia, located at 1714 Walnut St. I told my date that I had a very bad case of diarrhea and I ran to the toilet. I went to whatismyaddress.org and found that my address was 1714 Walnut St. I returned from the bathroom, explained that I had expunged all of the liquid fecal matter from my bowels, and then told the date my address “Earlier you inquired about my address,” I said. “well, it’s 1714 Walnut St.”
“1714 Walnut St?” my date said sarcastically. “So you live in Pietro’s Pizzeria? The very restaurant where we are currently dining.” He began to loudly guffaw.This is the moment when I learned that whatismyaddress.org doesn’t tell you where you reside, but rather the address where you are currently situated. I realized my own mistake but didn’t want to allow this insolent nobody to get one over on me.
“Yes, I do live above this pizzeria. In fact, I own it.”I immediately excused myself for the second time by saying that my diarrhea was acting up again. I bribed a waiter with a $20 bill and told her to play along with me and pretend I was the owner.
The bribed waiter came to our table and did as she was told…but she wasn’t a great actor. She was not able to successfully convey that I was the owner without cracking a smile or breaking into laughter. I shooed her away. I felt embarrassed so I excused myself on account of the diarrhea once again but this time I simply darted out of the establishment never to return again. Needless to say, I didn’t see my date again. I didn’t like his insolent attitude, but he inadvertently taught me a valuable lesson in how to properly use whatismyaddress.org.
After 7 months, my 14 new lovers all moved into my new home. It was a three bedroom house, so it was a tight squeeze, but we all got along so well that it felt like a neverending sleepover party. We’d go on field trips to the Zoo or various museums, and go on whatismyaddress.org to use its “Nearby” feature to find other significant locations in the region.
To say that whatismyaddress.org hadn’t changed my life for the better would be the understatement of the year. It helped me overcome my traumatic brain injury and find love and happiness. But this is just a small part of my life story.
I am no optimist; I don’t believe in true love…love is fleeting. I have split up with the 14 lovers I had at that moment in my life. I’ve moved on and found other, better, hotter people to live with and love with. I just want to paint a picture for you, dear reader, of the fragility of our feeble existence and how some websites can help us improve our lives.