Staring at the passport on the table, I’m dripping sweat. I now have a name—but do I really want to know more? What if I turn out to be a total jerk? A convict on the loose? A mass murderer who never got caught and then the past caught up with him, which caused him to lose his memory in the process? The possibilities are of course endless, but all I can think of are the worst case scenarios.
Hands shaking, I write the name on Google and press enter. Here. We. Go.
There isn’t a lot of information on my Facebook page—it’s mostly just bands and movies and books I apparently like. I gasp in terror when I realize I’ve read Infinite Jest. Now I have to start the whole fucking thing all over again.
It also seems I work as an Communications Designer for an IT company. There I am, smiling in front of my computer that, according to the childish stickers, must be the same one I’m using now. I’ve also worked as a some kind of freelance writer—but of course the articles are mostly just really shallow and boring reviews of movies I’ve seen or shows I’ve apparently been to that don’t really offer any valuable information other than the fact that I really hated the remake of The Pink Panther.
I browse through a cringe-worthy music review that was supposedly written by me in the ninth grade when it finally dawns on me: I won’t be able to erase any of this. I don’t have the passwords to either the services themselves or the email accounts they’re connected to. I guess that only leaves me one gloomy option: I have to pretend I really am this god-awful hipster wannabe that I seemed to be before my memory loss, and act accordingly. I suppose no one will be able to tell the difference, anyways.
I take a sip from my glass, wondering if I even drink. Guess I do now.
Tuomas J.
University of Helsinki
Why I Heart My Media 