In 2005, I received a stack of found, hand-written letters between two (stupid?) young women and their (long-suffering?) landlord. That gift would send me on a fifteen-year search for the truth. It was a comedic investigation that demanded some pretty complex interrogation: Who owns a story? How honest is our nostalgia? What does it mean to be a difficult woman? How do we engage in sexism and patriarchal gender roles? And, of course, does gas smell like avocados? And are allegations made by alligators?