Password Stories

Beginning

Sarah wrote her passwords as stories to remember them better. Former password-stories ran something like:

THE BOURGEOISIE DON'T USE BUFFETS

THEY ARE FOOD CONNOISSEURS

THEY CONSIDER BUFFETS TO BE NAUSEATING

HORS D'OEUVRES, FOR EXAMPLE, AREN'T EVEN SERVED

SO THE BOURGEOISIE GO TO CZECHOSLOVAKIA INSTEAD

She chose password-stories that centered around awkwardly spelled words, often French, or ones like 'thermometer' and 'Presbyterian'. Her reasoning was malicious hackers have grown so dependent on auto-correct that they wouldn't know how to spell 'baccalaureate' if it kicked them in the 'coccyx'.

The password-story changed every three years for purposes of security. The change wasn't supposed to be a big deal, however, the changing of a password-story tended to coincide with a major life event. Her last password-story had ended two years ago, along with a relationship that had lasted as long as the password-story before that.

Sarah didn't like thinking her inner password-story world was linked with the outer one. It meant connection and Sarah didn't like connection because connection meant depth and Sarah didn't follow depth well. Sarah wanted life to fall out like the pink tongue of a happy dog. To think life followed that pink tongue into deep and swarthy processes was overwhelming.

Her current password-story ran thus:

THE RHINOCEROSES NEED SURVEILLANCE

THEIR TERRITORY BORDERS THAT OF THE WILDEBEEST

THE WILDEBEEST IS NOT NECESSARILY VOYEURISTIC

BUT THEIR ELVEN MASTERS ARE

THE ELVES EMPLOY DACHSHUNDS TO WEEVIL

INTO SEEMINGLY IMPENETRABLE PLACES

THEREBY DIMINISHING A RHINOCEROS'

OTHERWISE ADVANTAGEOUS HUGENESS

She liked it. It had all the markers of a good password-story: respectable and well maintained; like clean underwear, if she were to die and be examined by strangers it would posthumously speak in her favor.

The only problem with the password-story process was thinking new passwords into existence. Sarah didn't want to write a bad password-story. She had never written a bad password-story in her life. As much as she feared a malicious hacker attack, she feared writing a bad password-story more.

But the difficulty of creating new passwords had increased ever since Sarah moved in with Kevin. Kevin supported the idea of a free internet. He supported the idea of a free internet so much that he refused to pay for anything. So, Kevin not only subscribed to new things all the time, he also had to 'refresh' these subscriptions by creating new accounts before their free, thirty day-trial periods expired. The burden of this was huge, and fell upon them both equally, but Sarah felt it more keenly because Sarah held herself up to the high standards of a well-written password-story.

And then suddenly it was March. The monotony of the winter weeks had compounded like the snow and turned into a slippery rock face that sent Sarah tripping through time. She'd tripped from October to Monday to Sunday to March without knowing how she'd gotten there. She felt beleaguered and the thread of her password-story was making this woefully clear. The passwords seemed to be channeling the stress of their author. Just last week Sarah opened four new accounts that left her with:

THE ELVES HAD TOTAL CONTROL OVER

THE RHINOCEROSES, WILDEBEESTS AND DACHSHUNDS

AND PLAYED THEM AGAINST EACH OTHER

TO DISTRACT THEM FROM THE INEVITABLE...

It was the ellipsis that baffled her. She almost cancelled the Blue Apron membership she created it for. She never used ellipses in her passwords. The spelled out version of 'ellipsis' could be useful, but to grammatically employ an ellipsis that left a password-story hanging signaled a lack of control. Her hold over her inner password-story world was loosening. She could see it in its accelerating recklessness. She was like a dog watching suitcases collect in the living room: something was bound to happen and there was nothing her sweet passivity could do about it.

Then the party. Everyone was huddled around her. They wanted a Gaga playlist without advertisements. Someone needed to create a Spotify premium account and it was her computer, her party, her boyfriend pushing the request:

"Babe, we need to do this."

But her mind was soggy. She couldn't remember where she'd left off with her password story. Had they already done the inevitable thing? Or were they still waiting?

She sat down at the computer. An impulse stretched her chest. She opened her mouth to yawn, found herself on the verge of a scream, closed her mouth and re-directed the impulse to her fingers.

"Oh god," she whispered, staring at the result on the screen, "That's violent."

She turned back toward the party. They were fishbowled around her. She felt like a fish.

"What? Sarah? What?"

No one could read the horrible incrimination. It was dotted. She was protected from their judgment. She turned back to it. Thank god. It was dotted. Oh shit. It was dotted. What was it again?

"What! Sarah! What!"

Someone at the back of the room demanded Bad Romance.

"I don't know!" she screamed.

Kevin reached over and finished entering her information. Bad Romance blared. She folded her hands in her lap and pretended to be high but all the while she was thinking: shit.