The story you’ve all been waiting for will arrive tomorrow.

It will be glorious.

You know what I learned this afternoon?

I learned about the word, “um-friend”, which, according to the Urban Dictionary (a legitimate source indeed), is a noun used to describe a partner in a sexual relationship with ambiguous social standing.

For example, “Hi Mom, this is Alfonso, my um…friend.”

Of course, hipsters have taken to reducing this to simply um-friend or even, umfriend.

My God, how cool is that.

Anyways, this just shows you how exciting things are at the math department, today.

You know, it’s been a good long while since I’ve written anything of substance.

If you know me, you’ll know that any substantial writing I do tends to fall into two categories: (1) Baring my soul to the World (e.g. “My life is sooooo shite — sob, sob, blubber, blubber”), and (2) Math.

Now in regards to the former, I’ve noticed that over time, my heart has seized up into a cold, impenetrable rock of melancholy, and I’ve learned to deal with whatever emotional crisis I may be going through at the time (Translation: I’m so emo, I can’t even talk about my emo-ness — which, uh…would make me like, super-emo).

In regards to the latter, I’m working on something big.

Okay, wait. I know better than anybody how many times I’ve promised big things, but haven’t delivered. My archives are littered — just fuckin’ littered — with incomplete projects, from my Mathematics of Attraction series, to my Mathematics of Fluids series.

I’m fucking horrible. I know.

But this time, it’s going to be different. I know you’ve heard it all, before. But I swear, this big thing — whatever it is — is going to make an appearance sometime before the end of March. Maybe it’ll be next week. Maybe not. But it will see the light of day.

Uh…unless, you know, I get into a horrible lawnmower accident and have both of my arms chopped off and reduced to stumps.

Then I make no guarantees.

You know, I was entirely convinced that the whole emo-teen-angst-angry-at-the-world phase was a thing of the past.

Like raging, unpredictable hormones.

And giggling. (Men, by the way, don’t giggle.)

But I woke up this morning cold, naked, and sleep-deprived, thinking, “Chhriiiisssst. Why is Life so fucking bullshit?”

I then pulled my big green duvet up and over my head for a whole 15 minutes, only to crawl out afterwards, and trudge to work.

Fuck.

It’s not over yet.

The thing with great photography — or more precisely, what I know of great photography (which is to say, not much), is that it’s so hard to predict when you’re going to take the picture.

You know, The Picture that you see hanging in white, minimalistic, art galleries in New York’s Upper East Side.

The Picture that makes magazine covers in National Geographic or Time.

The Picture that makes women everywhere simultaneously moan with orgasmic pleasure and sense a sudden, animal attraction to its creator.

Uh…yeah, that one.

Last Saturday, I went for a photography walk-around with a few other photographers. The conditions were great (though perhaps a little too sunny), and I ended up taking about a hundred shots. Of those hundred, I was initially happy with half a dozen.

But having arrived home and popped them through my computer, my heart fell as I realized none of them were The Picture.

Sure, some of them were pretty. Some had nice colour and nice character. But none of them were amazing. None of them, jaw-dropping, mind-blowing, holy-fuck-I-want-your-babies amazing.

I could see little imperfections in each one: This one was badly composed, that one didn’t capture the right dynamic lighting, this one had distracting clouds…and so on and so forth.

Statistically, I’ve taken about 5500 pictures in my photography-interested lifetime. Of those 5500, about 200 were worth a closer look. Then of those 200, about 15 were worth using as wallpaper on someone’s desktop. And of those 15, maybe, maybe 5 I’d consider one day getting framed. You know, to be hung on my distant cousin’s dark and moldy basement wall.

Let’s be honest, 1/1000 is a pretty horrific ratio.

But the thing is, I realized today that maybe — maybe that perfect shot doesn’t happen until your 10,000 shot. Or hell, maybe it doesn’t happen until your 20,000th.

But somewhere, somewhere out there in our big ol’ world, is my Perfect shot.

It exists. And statistically, it’s bound to happen.

I just have to keep clicking.