The Odds: Fifty-Six (Part IV)

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Do you think it’s possible that the only reason I’m starting this sentence with a question is because, in order to set up formatting, I copy-pasted each installment beginning with ‘Have you ever wanted to write a story?’ and when I tried to highlight and overwrite it, I missed the question mark? No, it’s not.

Honestly, it would be rather difficult for me to remember exactly how I came to the conclusion that Fifty-Six should be my fourth number. The first three numbers in my list were a part of me. They were inherent to my understanding of how writing, and the world, works. It’s also a bit of a chicken or the egg thing with whether I thought to come up with numbers after watching LOST, or if I focused a lot on the LOST numbers because I had already found significance in my own. But as the old tangent goes, there’s a logical answer to the chicken or the egg “dilemma”. The problem here is that a chicken cannot be born but from an egg, and an egg cannot exist without being laid by a chicken. And so they seem equally likely and unlikely as each other, because one is wholly dependent on the other. But...ignoring all evolutionary concepts (read: reality) on the matter, one has an advantage over the other. Are you ready to have your minds blown? A chicken can live perfectly happily without an egg, but an egg cannot survive without a chicken to protect it from danger, following its creation. Somebody clean up this graymatter! You’re welcome!

Back to what I was saying, when you add up all the LOST numbers of 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, and 42, you end up with the number 108. When I started adding up my three preexisting numbers, I somehow realized how easy it would be for them to reach 216; twice 108, of course. Without any more calculations, I determined that, in order to reach that sum, my last two numbers would have to be around 50 and 80. I tried a few different combinations. 55 + 84? I didn’t want Fifty-Five to intrude on Eleven’s purpose of being palindromic. It would have been an interesting choice since it’s a Fibonacci number, but since my first three preclude me from also using 89, it would have seemed like a waste anyway. 52 + 87? I didn’t want there to be a connection to playing cards, and I didn’t like my birth year being in there, because it’s too obvious. I tried a few more, and finally settled on Fifty-Six and Eighty-Three. Now this seems very inorganic and insincere, but the process itself is what makes these numbers relevant. Yes, by the time I got to them, I had already been looking to complete my collection, but that’s what makes it so cool. The effort I put into finding Fifty-Six in the first place is what imbued it with its power.

Other people have used Fifty-Six for their own reasons, all of which I read about just now, and did not consider when first coming up with it. The most fascinating one is that Shirley Temple’s mother always ensured that she wore 56 curls as a child. I can’t find any information as to why her mother chose that number (or why that number chose her mother), but it seemed to have worked. She was the archetype of the cute child; one that casting directors and modeling agents seem to look for even today. While the ideal “beautiful person” has changed over time, if you think about it, the most adorable children in advertising are determined by how closely they resemble her. I suppose the curls themselves have nothing to do with that, but still. Hey, I’m just spitballing here. Well...I mean, I’m not. That’s gross.

Speaking of numbers, when I started writing for my website, I went through some growing pains to try and figure out how long each installment would be. The early ones are all over the place, and show no level of continuity, in that regard. But then the microstories started being between 200 to 300 words each. I think. I would have to go back and look, but I’m pretty sure they were on the short side, just reaching into my memory. The weekend stories—which I first referred to as flash fiction, and now call mezzofiction (in order to maintain that continuity)—were shaping up to be longer. In fact, they were about five times as long, which meant that five microstories were equal to one longer story. But that’s dumb, because there are two days in a weekend. I continued to work on creating a site that you could count on. Literally. Instead of posting nanofiction stories as they popped into my head, I starting writing them out in a spreadsheet, with the intention of posting them every three hours, a pattern which is broken only by my afternoon story post, and my evening photo. Speaking of which, sorry about the lack of photos. They take more effort than you would think, I’ve run out of “things” in my house, and I don’t get out much. As my methods progressed, I came up with interrelated microstory series that would last for weeks, and were connected in some way, rather than just whatever I could come up with at the time. Lastly, I decided to decide on story arcs for The Advancement of Mateo Matic that would last a year/volume each, and I planned for future Saturday mezzofiction so that I would never again be caught with my pants down, like I was with the continuation of Mr. Muxley Meets Mediocrity. And that’s funny, because my pants fell down when I realized I had no idea what this very story you’re reading now would be about.

Things were falling into place as they should have. Microstory length increased to about 300 to 500, with the mode being rather close to the median. Mezzofiction story length still hovers around 1250 words, but I’m finding I need a little more for my more recent installments of The Advancement of Mateo Matic. It’s easy to go over my mark, but it’s hard for me to be under. I always feel like I’m cheating you out of something, or that I’m missing something and it’s incomplete. But I need to get over that. I don’t encounter Fifty-Six nearly as much as the other four. And that’s okay, because magic numbers aren’t real. When an installment is done, it needs to be done. And right now, I’m only at 1119 words, but it’s done. That is at least more than I thought there would be.

Oh, I forgot to mention that I only started posting my images alongside my stories because I noticed an uptick in clicks when I did so. Most of my traffic, I believe, comes from Facebook. And as you’re going through your feed, if you don’t see a picture, you don’t see it. It might as well not exist. I’m a word guy, I like words. Honestly, you guys are frustratingly simplistic, and I struggle to come up with images that match my words. I’ve even altered my stories in order to match with a picture I already have. Which is ridiculous, and not how writing should be done! Grrr! Anyway, here’s a picture of some penguins, because nothing else works with this story. This is what you have reduced me to. Are you happy? 1256 words. Hmm...

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Microstory 280: Perspective Fifty-Five

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Perspective Fifty-Four

This guy is probably two years older than me. If he had manned up and offered to take me to his room, I probably would have said yes. I’m no slut, but this would be a nice place to get that whole virginity thing out of the way with no strings attached. I feel like I’m getting old. When my mother was young, a man who wanted to court her would ride up to her estate in a carriage and they would take a walk through the vineyard, supervised by her father. This would happen when she was thirty years old, and they would not so much as be in a room together alone until they were married. I have the history right on all that, more or less. But nowadays, kids are doing things with each other at thirteen, twelve, eleven years old. I can’t keep up! No one is going to want to be with an eighteen year old virgin. I think they made a movie about that, and everyone made fun of him for it. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. I just got these new boobies. They’re not huge, but they look good in this yellow shirt. Maybe I should have worn a black bra underneath to get his attention. This was my one opportunity to get it over with. They put a giant circus tent over our house and are pumping gas into it. My parents are treating it like a vacation, so they’re not paying attention to me. I can do whatever I want, so if I can just figure out what that is, I’ll be set. Because sex is apparently off the table at this point. I shouldn’t have gotten off the elevator on the right floor. I should have followed him as far as I could. Or not. What does it matter? It’s over, and I’m being stupid. Sex isn’t all there is, and I have more important things to think about, like the fact that none of my friends has texted me in, like, an hour.

Perspective Fifty-Six

Microstory 279: Perspective Fifty-Four

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Perspective Fifty-Three

Oh my God, this guy who works at the hotel did not want to stop talking. Why do people always do that to me? Is it really just me, or do most people like talking to strangers? I went out to get a haircut the other day, and the guy sitting next to me while we were waiting made some remark about how often he has to do this. What about me says that I’m open to a conversation with someone I don’t know? I always have my headphones with me, and I was cursed with something called bitchy resting face. Basically, I always look pissed off, even when I’m not. And I promise that I’m usually not. I’m actually very easy-going; I just don’t like talking to people unless I have to. Wow, that sounds ludicrous when I say it out loud, doesn’t it? But this guy at the hotel. He’s complaining about a class they host in one of their event rooms. I don’t really care. It’s none of my business. The airline screwed up my flight, and so I’m stuck here. It’s actually awesome, because I’ve never been so free. My parents aren’t all that strict, but they are always around. I was planning to eat whatever I want, and order some porn on the TV, and perhaps get room service without eating any of it. It’s all paid for by the airline, so what do I care? But now my plans are suddenly changing, and I become grateful for how long the hotel guy was talking to me. I’m in an elevator with a pretty girl in a sexy tight yellow shirt. She’s speaking to me in what’s clearly a totally fake British accent, asking me if I’ve ever jumped in an elevator. If she were really British, she would call it a lift. I carefully consider my words as I look at her funny. Hey girl, no. Giirrrllll, definitely not that. Shit. What’s a good line that doesn’t sound like a line? I should have checked out that pickup artist class. Holy crap, how do you talk to girls! Maybe I should have gotten more practice talking to others so I wouldn’t just be standing here silent, like a freak. Maybe the guy at the hair place knew that. Maybe he was God, nudging me towards my destiny. Maybe the hotel guy is too. And I’m wasting the opportunity. What if I have the chance to hook up with this girl? What if she’s my future wife? What if she knows a celebrity? Wait, where is she going? This isn’t my floor. Nooooo!

Perspective Fifty-Five

Microstory 278: Perspective Fifty-Three

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Perspective Fifty-Two

I work at the airport hotel. It’s not the most glamorous job in the world. It’s not even the most exciting job I’ve personally ever had. But it can get interesting. All kinds of people stay here. Some of them are creepy, some are very loud and obnoxious, and some are quite pleasant. Tonight one of the guests is a teenager who has never been away from home before now. He went off to a special music camp out of state. He was supposed to go home today, but his flight was delayed so much that he would have missed his connection, and so the airline put him up with us. He’s not a little kid, so he can take care of himself, but it looks like he gets nervous, and he probably has trouble trying new things. I’m happy to help him, though, because he’s a decent person. We’re hosting a guy who I find incredibly distasteful. He runs a class for people trying to pickup women. He claims to be gender neutral, and all inclusive, but I don’t see any women in the conference room. I don’t think there are any gay people there either. I met my wife the old fashioned way; in college, through a friend of a friend. That’s how it’s supposed to be done. These kids and their phones and emojis. They don’t connect with each other anymore. Is nothing sacred? My God, I bet in a hundred years, people will all be living in a virtual world, so they never have to actually interact with each other in person. They might not have bodies anymore; they’ll just be computer programs. And it’s guys like this who are driving us towards this terrible future. I don’t know what he teaches these lonely hearts, because I don’t really want to be in there once the class has started, but it can’t be good. He’s probably just going over how to—what did my nephew call it—swipe right? Apps. Apps for everything. When I was a kid, apps were food you ate before dinner. I bet there’s an app for ordering an app in your virtual world where you build farms and blow pigs up and crush candies. I’m not sure what that last one is about, but I’m not even that old. I just know what life was like when you were expected to actually live it. Why can’t we get back to that? Let’s go back to the good ol’ days.

Perspective Fifty-Four

Microstory 277: Perspective Fifty-Two

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Perspective Fifty-One

I know what to say. And I can teach you how to say it too. I hate the term pickup artist, but that’s what people call me, so I have to allow it. Unlike other teachers, I can tailor my lessons to utilize your personal skills. That’s why I always only run small class sizes. I don’t just give you lines to memorize, and I try to steer clear of negging. For anyone here who doesn’t know what that means, it’s basically giving someone an insult that’s wrapped inside of a compliment. What this does is convince your target that they’re good enough to be noticed, but also that they could do with some work, and—what luck—you happen to be there to help them. I shy away from this because, even though it has its place, it also sort of poisons the well. People are smarter than they used to be, and they read through these tricks. The only way seduction works in today’s day and age is to be genuinely interested in your target, or rather, be able to convince them that you are. It also doesn’t hurt to have something that sets you apart from all the other schmucks in the bar, as it were. But it doesn’t have to be a bar. There are plenty of places to pick someone up. If you’re in a grocery store, I recommend putting something in your cart that you’re target is buying, as a start. Unless it’s just milk, because everyone buys milk. Grocery stores are tough, and require a lot of nuance, so if you wanna learn that, you’re going to need to attend my advanced class. The dog park is a good place because people who like puppies like other people who like puppies. But this requires a commitment. If you just borrow a pet from a friend, your target will be able to tell. If you’re gonna do it, go big. Make it a rescue, and if you’re a man looking for a woman, make it an ugly dog. Honestly, women can’t resist an outcast animal. It draws them to you, and makes you look like you’re not superficial and shallow. Now if you’re here to become a pickup artist, then you might as well leave right now. I’m not here to teach you a “game” that you can play for your amusement. The fewer number of targets you speak to, and the higher number of successes you have, the better. I don’t want you to “play the field” and objectify others. You should be looking for a connection. Now, this connection doesn’t have to be marriage; it could still be a one-night stand, but your goal should be a phone number or a shared cab with one special person; not as many as you have time for. This introduction was free, but if you want to learn my method, it’s time to pay. Who’s in?

Perspective Fifty-Three

Microstory 276: Perspective Fifty-One

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Perspective Fifty

I’ve been waiting for a call. I’ve never done that before. A couple of years ago, I tried using online dating, and it did not work out. I sent messages to dozens of girls, thinking that at least one of them would respond, because...statistics. But none of them did. I imagine that the most they did was take one look at my profile photo and then click away. My words probably never even reached their eyes. Now I’m no poet, but I also didn’t just send a stock message every time. I put a lot of thought into them. I was assertive but not aggressive, clear but open-minded. I told them I was interested in starting a conversation. I figured that was the safest route. It’s not presumptuous, but not too timid. At least, that’s what I thought. I have no clue if any of them actually read it. I guess I just assumed they didn’t. And it’s not like I was just contacting the prettiest girls on the site. I understand what league I’m in, and I stuck with that. After my initial subscription was over, I had to drop the service. It wasn’t doing me any good, because I was no good. So instead of spending money on that, I spent money on classes. What I’ve learned is that there is a class for pretty much everything. I started with a self-help seminar for how to have more confidence. I moved on to one that taught me how to figure where my true strengths lie. I took a class for grooming and making myself as presentable as possible. I walked into a class run by a pickup artist, but felt it to be unseemly, so I walked right back out after ten minutes. More recently, I’ve been learning communication skills at the community college. It’s geared towards people who are in or are interested in breaking into business, but I find it rather useful for my needs. I’ve discovered that talking to others, in any setting, for any purpose, was my major flaw. It’s helped me learn to gauge people’s reactions to my words so I can tailor the conversation to their expectations. This has made me a better person, and feel better about myself. So when I encountered a pretty girl who broke my computer, I was able to joke around with her, rather than just quietly accepting the situation and getting away as fast as possible, like I would have before. I just wish I knew what I did wrong, and why she’s not yet called me. We should have exchanged numbers so that I could call her instead. No, that would have made things awkward, because she’s obviously not into me. Story of my life. Maybe I’ll go back to that pickup artist.

Perspective Fifty-Two

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: May 12, 2066

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Mateo started smacking his lips as they were heading towards Palace Glubbdubdrib. “Are you thirsty?” he asked.

“No, my name is Richard Parker, remember?”

And they laughed, but not quite as riotously as before, because they both really were thirsty. That would have to be the last Life of Pi joke.

“The sorcerer will surely have water for you,” the man who was their guide said to them several minutes later as they were passing the gates of the palace. And then he just kept moving without another word.

The two new friends walked past two guards in black who made no move to stop them. They climbed stairs and nearly crawled across the bridge as thirst threatened to take over completely. Finally, they made it to the front door and pushed it open with what little energy they had left. They fell down, but before they could reach the floor, they found themselves sitting at a dinner table. Before them lay candles, fruit, and wine. The Rogue was watching them from the other end.

“It’s you,” Mateo said. He looked for water.

“All we have is wine,” the Rogue said to him.

“We will die.”

The Rogue tilted his head side to side a couple of times before haphazardly waving his hand at one of his servants who furnished them with a pitcher of water. Mateo and Richard killed it, so they were supplied with another. They killed that one too. “May we move on?” The Rogue asked sarcastically.

“Why are you here? You’re not the Lord of Glubbdubdrib.”

The Rogue laughed. “No one is. I could find no one to play the part, so I stepped in. The show must go on and all that.”

“And this is the TV movie version, right?”

“It is,” the Rogue replied.

Mateo shook his head and started eating some of the bread. “I think I was, like, nine or ten when that came out. I was in the room when my parents were watching it, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I don’t know what we do next.”

“I don’t even think I was alive,” Richard commented.

The Rogue peered at him. “Your presence is not required.” He lifted his hand with the clear intention to spirit Richard away.

“He stays,” Mateo commanded.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s not fair to make me go through a tribulation alone, so he will remain with me until such time as you see fit to reunite me with Leona. And when that day comes, you will take Richard wherever and whenever he wants to go, and you will place him there alive and well.”

“Are you giving me orders!” the Rogue yelled.

Mateo bolted to his feet and swiftly wiped his plate from the table. “If you want me to drink this wine and agree to be drugged for days, then you will do what I say. You don’t want me to die. You want me to play out your favorite movies. Ted Danson never threw his plate to the floor, did he? Unless you want me to make some more dramatic deviations, I suggest you afford me this one goddamn thing and agree to not kill my friends, which is what will happen if you return him to the probe!”

The Rogue lifted his chin and exhaled graciously. He closed his eyes and presented Mateo with his open palm. Mateo returned to his seat and gulped down the entirety of the wine.

“So you were paying better attention to the film, weren’t you?”

This was true. He could not play this out with the precision of Life of Pi, or even Cast Away, but he could pass. “I believe it is time for me to retire.”

“Take the wine with you—” the Rogue began to say.

“Yes, yes, there’s a storm. I remember.”

For the next several days, Mateo began to notice small cuts on his fingers, but he had no memory of the day before. As far as he could tell, he and Richard had only arrived yesterday. Like a good little reenactor, he one day stopped drinking the wine. Upon seeing this, the Rogue dropped his napkin onto the table. “We won’t do the part where you pretend to be asleep in the dungeon. But before I show you the mirror, I would like to show you something else.” He continued to speak while they followed him down the hallway. “This version of the story is told in flashbacks, allowing us to see what Lemuel’s wife and son are doing while he tells the story of his adventures in an insane asylum.”

“That is not in the book,” Richard said. He was given a copy of the source material to read while Mateo was in his daze.

“It is not, no. But I’m basing this on the miniseries.” He began to open the double doors of the room at the end of the hallway. “And I need to stay as true to that as I possibly can.”

On the other side of the doors was Mateo and Leona’s room in their house in Topeka. Inside were Leona and Theo. Mateo instantly tried to go to them, but an invisible barrier stopped him. They were stuck in that observer dimension he and The Cleanser once used to eavesdrop on her and Darko.

“Should there not be a bookcase between us and the room?” Richard asked.

“I do not get that reference,” Mateo said.

“It was after your time,” Richard admitted. “Just after, if I recall correctly.”

“Are you going to watch or what?” the Rogue asked.

They began to watch the conversation between Leona and Theo. “He will be returning soon.” She didn’t sound very confident.

“It’s been more than three days,” Theo said with apprehension. Really? It’s been years for Mateo, and only days for the rest of the world, but he had assumed Leona would be part of his world, and not subject to real time. She barely had time to miss him.”

“Seems weird for the shoe to be on the other foot, doesn’t it?” the Rogue asked.

Mateo did not respond as he continued to watch the scene.

The Rogue continued, “ya know because she had to wait for you for a year at a time?”

“Yeah I get it, I’m not an idiot, asshole.”

He made the sound of an angry cat. “Sor-ry. I just wanted to show you that I’ve not been torturing her.”

“Thank God for small miracles.”

“Yes,” the Rogue agreed. “Thank me.”

Mateo rolled his eyes.

“Well if you don’t appreciate it, then I’m just going to end it.”

“No wait,” Mateo pleaded, regretting his attitude. But it was too late. The Rogue closed the door, and when Mateo reopened it, the special dimension was gone. It was just a random palace chamber. “Dick.”

“It’s time for the mirror.” They reluctantly followed him down another hallway. “I have somewhere to be, so we don’t have time for all the hubbub. I can retrieve one person from the brink of death. You will be able to speak to someone from your past just before they die. Who will it be? Your mother, your father, both of whom you killed? Or will it be Daria?” The Rogue smiled wickedly. “Decisions, decisions.” They were not technically at a mirror. Another dimensional barrier was placed in the threshold of a room, one that happened to be presently showing them a mirror image. It jiggled as if taken straight out of The Matrix.

Mateo desperately wanted to speak with his lost family members, this was true. But that would not be very strategic. He needed to be mindful of the game. It was time to turn the tables. He plucked the knife from the Rogue’s hand and recklessly tore into his whole hand, like a badass. He swung his arm and let blood splash into the barrier as he recited the incantation, “I stand at the gates of life and death. Come forwards. Come forwards, spirits! Here is life. Horace Reaver, great pain in my ass, leader of the board, smell blood! Smell life! I summon you!”

The Rogue was notably shocked, which was hopefully a good thing. Instead of an arm slowly birthing from the barrier, the scene simply changed, showing Reaver frozen in time in his special salmon prison. The explosion that would soon kill him was just now emanating from a machine, and it wasn’t actually frozen completely. It was just moving incredibly slowly. Reaver finally broke free from real-time and looked around. “Mister Matic,” he said through the barrier. “I’m actually very happy to see you.”

“Actually, I am too,” Mateo responded honestly.

Horace looked over to Richard. “Mister Parker, I am excitedly surprised to see you here as well. How did you survive the space probe explosion?”

“Simple temporal extraction,” Mateo explained, proud of his impressive use of technical jargon. “Like the one you’re experiencing right now.”

Horace drew his eyes up at the ceiling but kept his head mostly in place. “Quite.”

“Why did you choose him? You could have seen one of your parents, or your aunt! Or anybody, really! Why choose the one man you hate more than me?”

Mateo smiled. “One thing I’ve discovered with these observational pockets of superdimension—or whatever other technobabble you might use to describe them—is that salmon cannot cross the barrier.”

“You were meant to speak with a loved one again; not bring them with you. So no, you can’t cross the barrier.”

“But something tells me that you can.” Mateo jumped into action and began to force the Rogue through the barrier. Richard didn’t hesitate to help him.

The Rogue struggled using remarkable strength. From the other side of the barrier, Horace laughed with delight. He took the Rogue by the hips and starting pulling him through as well.

“You can’t kill me!” the Rogue yelled. “I’m immortal. I’ll return, and I’ll be pissed!” He stopped trying to stop them, and instead took Richard by the arm. “This is punishment number one!”

“No!” Mateo screamed.

Richard was not strong enough to resist the Rogue’s strength. “It’s okay, Mateo. I was going to die anyway.”

Horace was not letting up either. He was about to die, so his adrenaline was probably sufficiently high enough. “I kind of love you, Mateo!”

“I know!” Mateo yelled back. In another life, they would be friends. Then he remembered that they literally were friends in another life.

In one last desperate move, the Rogue snapped his fingers and an egg timer popped into existence before dropping to the floor. “This is murder!” He was all the way through the barrier, along with Richard, when time restarted and the full force of the explosion came upon them.

Mateo turned his head and closed his eyes, but was soon able to reopen them as the pocket dimension had disappeared, leaving only the palace chamber that was supposed to be there. The egg timer continued to click down from a minute. He could run, but that would probably do no good. He just watched it patiently. Tick, tick, tick, ding. Another island. But Leona was there.

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The Odds: Forty-Two (Part III)

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Everyone knows the answer to life, the universe, and everything. The problem is that no one knows the question. Hi, my name is Tavis Highfill, but you can call me Nick Fisherman. Today I’m here to talk to you about the number 42. It’s a beautiful number which, unlike 24, has a grand history of significance. Hey, did you notice that those two numbers are the reverse of each other? Interesting coincidence, don’t you think? Tons of religions looked at 42 and said coolly, “nice...nice.” Some think it’s bad number, but don’t worry about them. Why, just now, I read a tweet that came in while I was at work involving Molybdenum, whose atomic number happens to be 42. Boom, apophenia again! The most famous uses of the number come out of writers Douglas Adams and Lewis Carroll (the latter likely influenced the former).

I’m not going to go over what other people think of the number, because why would I do that? I’m going to explain how I came to the number myself. I first started watching the hit television series LOST on September 22, 2004. I didn’t look that up. It’s just something that I remember. It’s practically a religion for me. I grew up in a TV family. That’s what we did together. We didn’t go hunting, we didn’t do crafts, and we didn’t ignore each other. We watched TV. But when I was young, my viewing practices were limited. I spent a great deal of time watching PG-13 movies on HBO when my parents were at work. Sorry not sorry, mom and dad. I fell in love with Quantum Leap because it was my introduction to science fiction, was on before my mother got home and needed the TV for herself, and was just generally awesome. I also felt like I was getting away with pretending to be an adult for an hour a day.

I watched a few other things on my own, like Spiderman cartoons which seemed like a huge betrayal against my parents, because even though they hadn’t told me I couldn’t watch it, they also never told me I could. Besides the standard family-oriented programs like Step By Step, Boy Meets World, and Full House (one of the worst shows ever made, admit it) the family watched Scrubs, Will and Grace, and a few other comedies. In the summer of 2004, I started seeing previews for LOST, and I was immediately excited. A daring tale of survival, mystery, and intrigue. Was it drama? Was it science fiction? Who were these people? What is the island? It was around this time that I was starting to feel like television may be more relevant for my skills as a writer than books. I turned out to be right about that, by the way.

The years following the premiere of LOST saw me adding series to my repertoire exponentially, and I do mean that literally. With every passing season, the number of hours of scripted primetime television I was watching increased dramatically. I was watching the majority of new series, and catching up on series that I had missed. I was going back to long-lost legacy programs like Firefly, Dark Angel, and Surface, as well as then-current seasoned series like Battlestar Galactica, Smallville, Veronica Mars, and The 4400 using illegal streaming links. I was obsessed, and still am. I got to the point where I was probably watching 70-80 hours of content per week, no joke. I was more dedicated to understanding the art of television than most people are to their fulltime jobs. Again, no joke.

I was watching shows I loved, shows I could only watch while working on other things, and even shows that I absolutely detested. To that last part, I watched a couple of seasons of 2 Broke Girls, and stuck with Bones long past the point they ruined it. I finally managed to watch Stargate SG-1 & Stargate: Atlantis, Buffy the Vampire Slayer & Angel, and Odyssey 5. My sister’s gift of Netflix allowed me to streamline my viewing habits, and made it easier to watch shows like Farscape, Supernatural, SGU Stargate Universe, and Alias, among many, many others. I’ve seen Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles, Dollhouse, Heroes, and Prison Break at least twice. I’m going on a third for that last one to prepare for the revival. It would be impossible to count how many times I’ve seen any given episodes of LOST. Now that I’m running this website, and have lots of other responsibilities, my repertoire is much more tempered, but it’s still pretty strong. I study television like some study film. I look for what makes a good show and what makes a successful one, along with what’s happening when those two things are in conflict. I hunt for easter eggs, research interesting casting decisions, read trivia, and analyze trends. I’m an expert. If I could have earned a bachelor’s degree in the field, I so would have, and I would have kicked ass.

I used my knowledge of how to tell a goddamn story to write my own. My writing got better, not just because I was older and more experienced, but because TV taught me story structure. My high school teachers are not responsible for my talent, and my college professors sure and shit didn’t teach me two things. Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse are the ones who began my education, because they sent me on a path of exploration. They taught me how far to go with a cliffhanger, how to develop character relationships, and even why reading is important. Even though it’s clear that I gather the majority of my inspiration from TV, I do read some. The special LOST numbers of 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, and 42 led me to reading the five primary books in the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy franchise. And so it was Douglas Adams who got me interested in reading again, and taught me that I should shy away from the so-called “classics” and gravitate towards exciting cult lowbrow fiction. I still don’t read as much as my contemporaries, but I read The Hunger Games trilogy, yet part of The Magicians trilogy, and many Richelle Mead novels.

Forty-Two is important because it’s not important. It doesn’t really mean anything. It doesn’t matter what the meaning of life is, because what would knowing that change? Is that really what you want; to have a purpose? If your purpose is to help someone else, aren’t you really just helping someone whose only purpose is to help someone else? Do you find comfort in “God’s plan”? Why? I say that if the point of life is to reach some sort of literally lofty goal, then there isn’t real a point at all. When you play a game of chess, you know that there will be one of two outcomes; a stalemate, or a win. But you’re not playing so you can discover which one, are you? You’re not even really playing to see who wins, should that be the result. You’re playing for the game itself. You could just knock one of the kings over and walk away from the board as soon as you sit down, but what the fuck would that accomplish? My God isn’t moving us around to his liking in order to get something done. She doesn’t send hurricanes, and she sure as hell doesn’t kill children. I don’t know why you’re praying to a God who kills children, but he sounds like a prick.

The number forty-two taught me what life is really about; whatever you make of it. Everything is just about choices, and your purpose is to make the world a better place. If you’re interested in making it worse, then your life is meaningless at best. There are quadrillions of stars in the universe, a couple hundred billion of which are in our galaxy alone. The chances that a planet with conditions like ours exists—as far from the sun as it needs to be, landscape as it needs to be, in a solar system as far from the central black hole that it needs to be—are incredibly low. Evolution has led us to this moment right here where I’m writing this, and you’re waiting to. The perfect set of circumstances had to combine in a perfect series of causal connections in order to make you be a thing that is real. I find that far more impressive than a God who came into being via magic and then just decided to invent you. Forty-Two is my third number because in no reality is it not. Click here for the next installment...