You will forget who you are but you will remember a retro version of yourself from before you knew what disappointment was: not a last Rolo, new Tarantino, silent movie sort of disappointment, but men leaving you for ex-wives, break ups in the age of Facebook, finding replaced music on the Dawson’s Creek DVDs because they couldn’t afford the licensing.

This version of you, the one that still loves Jack, will cry irrationally, spend the money of others, not know how to use a knife. He, your husband, who you forget daily like key codes for doors you walk through weekly or your Twitter password, looks at you and thinks, “She’s fuckable, just, but she dresses like boarding school, smells like her mother,” and you’ll not know if that’s a good or a bad thing, when your assessments are off, especially about George Clooney with a beard. And you’ll wonder why you don’t have religion, aren’t part of a community with a strong identity, have to piece together a new self from the old you and Gossip Girl and the stories your sister swears are true but you don’t know.