I’m tired of being saddled with the burden of remembering. I want there to be a company dedicated to archiving memories, something with a cheesy slogan and an advertisement on every other billboard. I’ll be able to depend on something other than my own default, defunct, utterly disastrous mind. So that in twenty, fifty years, when my twice-removed second cousin asks if I still remember her, I’ll have a 1-800 number at the ready (1-800-REMEMBER? 1-800-PLEASE-FAMILY-AND-FRIENDS?) and someone in Albuquerque or Boise will FedEx me a box with a convenient list of dates, places, people and whodunnits I’m expected to be able to recall. I’ll actually be able to respond (“Oh yes! You were the one who was changing with me in a public bathroom back in ’04 and when I asked you to throw me my shirt, it fell in the toilet and I had to walk three blocks back to my house in a bra and brown restroom paper!”) rather than just offering a shrug, a transparent smile.