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I have recently decided that the most dangerous thing any human being can believe is that they are special. It's obvious in New York, when you are one of a hundred on a subway car at rush hour, one of a thousand in your office building between 9 and 6, but harder to realize when it's one on one and someone looks at you in that way that makes you feel like you're the only two people on earth.

Well, you're wrong. There are over 6.2 billion people on earth and no longing gaze will change that, not even when you smile that droopy-eyed half smile and whisper, "What are you looking at?" and the other whispers "Nothing special" and smiles back at you. They're not being playful, they're being honest.

That's what I've come to learn.
You are nothing special.

See, you'd think this was a depressing thing, but believing that you are special, especially in someone else's eyes and then realizing your wrong is pretty much the most depressing thing in the world.

For the last two weeks I've started emails and reached for the phone to yell things like:
I can't believe you would treat me like that
Why dont you act like a man and...
Fuck you
I can't believe you didn't pick up the phone
I don't think we were ever friends to begin with
You hurt me more than anyone I have ever considered a friend has in my entire life

and my personal favorite: I am not a person you can do this to.

That's the best one because I even cried really really hard and threw thrings really really hard and my roommate sat on the floor in front of me while I did so, and I screamed really really loud, "I am not a person he can do this to!" and as soon as the object hit the floor and that last word came out of my mouth and I caught my breath I realized, but wait. He did. I am that person he can do this to.

So, you see, I'm not that special after all. Chances are you're not so special either, and together we're not that great. We're just one of 6.2 billion selfish bastards more concerned with making our life as easy as possible instead of taking the higher ground and looking out for eachother. Hell, I bet even Ghandhi had at least one bad day.

***

So, naturally the only way to get over it is to go out, get drunk, and spend the night with someone.

You see, because when you live in a city of millions and millions, and millions of those are out on any given night and you walk into a bar filled with people and you narrow it down to one, chances are still very very high that that person will be very much like the someone you once thought was special. And that other tall blonde, she's like you too, and even the curly haired red head is probably not that far off either.

Every compliment that give you is something you've heard before.

"You feel like an old pair of jeans." Of course.
"You have amazing hair." Yes.
"I feel like I can say anything to you." Yup.
"You smell really great." True.

And everything they do for you is something that's been done before.

"I bought you coffee. I remember how you like it."
"I want to take you out for tapas."
"I want to make you eggs."

And everything they say is that stupid cliche.
"I swear I'll call you."
"We'll do lunch next Thursday."

So you just nod your head and say "uh huh" and put on your shoes and walk away back out into the streets where you're just one of a million (not to be confused with one in a million).

No matter how much it hurts there will always be someone who likes coffee, always someone who likes the same beer you do, always someone who can talk about baseball and always someone who will want to kiss you. And sometimes, they will call.

But hope, I think, is the most delicate substance on earth. So easily shattered, it's not even something you can hold onto without breaking, and if you can't hold onto hope what can you hold on to?

It's all about luck I think. Right place, right time. And in New York, there are hundreds at the same place and time as you.