I got a letter from my ex-girlfriend, the first in five months, and sat down to write a brilliant entry, the sum of my short career. I planned to prove the value of my ideas, and justify my need to write and create.

I sat at the computer, wishing for an infernal engine in my belly, something that would burn up her letter and turn it into liquid prose.

It wasn't even a letter. It was an invitation to a reunion of friends up at Alfred University. It came generic and photocopied, nothing personal. What a dumb mix--"return to school with your old pals, but forget that I'm inviting you." I can assume the same invitation went to other key people from our social cube. Who knows why she sent it to me? Maybe obligation.

She calls it the "Combined Effect Reunion." Combined Effect was the name for my college radio show on WALF, shared with two other men, all collaged sounds and talking. I came up with the name.

Why go back? To look for the lines that marked old territory, all that emotional mess firming up into something deep and empty? It's a college town, and for me it will be devoid of anything but steeping history. I don't want to return and prove I'm strong or wise. (Do I? Maria? Christa? Phil? Steve? Ian? Kathryn? Erin? Amelia? Stephanie? Robert? Am I wrong? Should I go?)

Here is the place I was beaten up badly by drunks. Here is where I lost my virginity--an awful summer afternoon on Main Street. I've made love to three different women on this large flat rock here, above the campus, and lost the addresses for all three. And here is my ex-girlfriend, smiles and feelings of loss all around. Why am I here when my home is New York City? When this college was my home, I kept an apartment and friends, and had lovers. It's all over, the lovers gone, and the friends scattered.

And there was the night after graduation. I'd graduated in three years. I snuck out from the house where my best friend from high school and my father were sleeping. Maria, Jenna, and Amy had dragged couches onto the lawn. There was beer, dancing, and kissing. Loud and sweet. I said goodbye then, some fraternity setting off fireworks on the horizon. I don't want to pretend the place didn't change after I left.

Tonight, I thought I'd be more torn up and write something terrific, but this is as brilliant as the Subway Diary gets. Had the letter told me something strong and individual--say, "Paul, I'm marrying your Dad"--I could have come up with a phenomenal entry. But in this case, I'm going to bed.

I sent this email in reply to the letter:

Rather ominously, my "sent mail" folder tells me this is the 666th message I've sent.

I got an email this week, informing me that the Subway Diary will be praised by The Web magazine, Singapore edition. I replied to the journalist's email with thanks and questions, but have not heard back. It may all be a cruel, mid-April fib. It could be a mind game. I have real competition in the Asian online diary market. Important players want me out.

But if it is not a mean fib, I invite all readers to run out to Singapore and show your support by purchasing a copy of this fine magazine.

Thank you,

Paul Ford

Stand Up Beautiful Roundabout Guy