Evidence that I have too much time on my hands

We've been receiving quite a bit of mail meant for the former tenants of our apartment. First some mail from a local church addressed to one "Mary Braden*" arrived. Shortly thereafter, we got a copy of "Whiskey Advocate," addressed to a "Chase McCollum." I commented to Scott that clearly, Mary was praying for Chase's pickled soul. I had their sad, doomed relationship all figured out. No wonder they moved!

But then the next week our mailbox included a Coupon Valu-Pak for "Tiffany Nashimoro." Then it occurred to me: a prematurely aborted season of Real World: Brooklyn took place in this apartment.

It would have been the saddest season ever. Those poor kids, cramming themselves into a mere two-bedroom, nary a jacuzzi nor sex swing in sight (they have sex swings in the Real World, right?). Trapped together on a quiet, family-oriented block. Why weren't they in Williamsburg? Who did this to them?

Obviously Mary was the awkward, sheltered Catholic girl, living away from her parents for the first time--and in New York City, no less! And we all know that Chase was the womanizer with a burgeoning drinking problem and a deep-seated anger even he couldn't fathom. Then of course there's shopaholic Tiffany, whose compulsive spending masked an insecurity borne from her slight but noticeable difference in leg length.

A few days after Tiffany's mail showed up, we received health-insurance correspondence for yet another former resident: Erick Ramirez.

Now I just think someone's toying with me.

Next I predict we'll be receiving mail addressed to Ntozake Hoyes-Zimmerman (talented spoken-word performer of African-Jamaican-German descent, haunted by childhood kidnapping) and of course Brock Dodgson (wealthy Southern boy whose family can't accept his bisexual identity). I'll let you know what happens.

*(I changed the names, but only slightly. Only slightly!)