five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes

by mg at 06:20 PM on October 03, 2001

525,600 minutes - how do you measure, measure a year? In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee. In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife. In 525,600 minutes - how do you measure a year in the life?

How about love? Measure in love. Remember the love.

I thought and thought and thought about what I should do to commemorate this date. I couldn’t think anything satisfactory, I almost decided to do nothing.

But, I am a huge narcissist. I couldn’t possibly let this momentous event pass by without using it to somehow inflate my already huge ego. Then I thought better of that, and decided to give back to all my loyal readers, since they are the ones who makes this all happen.

I decided I’d go back through the archives, find all the times I used the phrase “to be continued” and actually finish the stories that I never actually continued.

no one fights here without a reason

Cripes. This was supposed to be a story about a bar fight. I ended up writing four posts (this is one of them) and never actually got to the fight. After four posts, I don’t think I could bring myself to write another word about Thumbs East.

transexportational

This was a three part series retelling the events of three days on the New York subway. On day one I got accused of playing with myself while rubbing up against a fellow passenger. On day two I sat across from a mom breast feeding her toddler, who then proceeded to rip his mom’s shirt off when he was removed from her teat.

I never got to day three. Why? It wasn’t as interesting a story. After the first two days anything else would have seemed just boring. But, in the interest of tying up loose ends, I’ll sum it up as quickly as possible.

My trip home from work involved transferring from one train to another. One evening I was followed from one train to the other. Well, not exactly followed, so much as that me and this woman happened to be on one train, sitting across from each other, and then on a second train, sitting across from each other again. Considering how many people transfer at that station (51st and Lex) it is kind of weird to end up close to someone you were near on another train. But the truly weird part was that this woman was staring at me the entire time.

People don’t usually stare at each other in New York; it could get you killed. I couldn’t understand why this woman was watching me so intently. When I got home I checked to see if I had dirt on my face, a spinach leaf or a pubic hair in my teeth, or something, but it wasn’t anything like that.

Now, I don’t think of myself as an extremely attractive person. But when I relayed this story to someone else, they said this woman must have thought I was hot. That never occurred to me, which is probably why I have such trouble getting dates. A woman can stare at me intently for 20 minutes and the only thing I can think about is something must be wrong.

See, I told you, a boring story.

dreamt is too a word

I was going to talk about I dream I had. Instead, I got distracted and spent the entire post talking about something stupid and unrelated. I’d relay the content of the dream, but it is a dream long ago forgotten. I wasn’t going to mention it at all, but it made me realize exactly how off topic I can get sometimes.

When I sit down, I always have a story in my head. I try to stay focused and get the story I sat down with written. But something pops up to force me off the highway onto some dirt road that eventually comes to a dead end at a cabin deep in the Appalachian Mountains where 14 people (all with the suffix “Bob” attached to their first name), 23 dogs (8 of which only have 3 legs), and 2 roosters live. It may make for an interesting detour, but before the night is through, 9 times out of 10, there will be an old redneck pointing a shotgun at your head unless you agree to marry his 12 year-old daughter.

*Ahem* Where was I?

the most beautiful girl in the world

I can’t imagine what else I had to say about this girl. Since seeing her the one time I haven’t seen her again. And while New York is a big place, I’m surprised I haven’t seen her. Considering how often I ride the subway and how few “non-regulars” would be taking the trip to my less than glamorous neighborhood it is more than likely we’d meet again. Or rather meet for the first time since I never said a word to her.

I’ve since come to believe she was merely a figment of my imagination, as no one could actually be that attractive.

Well. There are plenty more examples, but this is already more reminiscing than I can bear for one day. I hope you all feel some sort of closure, because I just feel tired. In closing: remember the love.