my life is a former soviet republic

all bureaucracy, all the time.

in the last five days i have pretended to be my mother and my mother has pretended to be me in two unrelated situations spread over three states and dealing with stuff from up to two years ago.

i wish i could say it was kafkaesque, but i don't know much about kafka and whether he or his shtick is applicable here. since it was all justified means to an end, maybe i can go with machiavellian? i'd like it to have some kind of profound literary implication. maybe i should reread "the gulag archipelago."