New York is only as large as your network of acquaintances. I’m talking a density of facebook-friend, cubed.

If you’re in Manhattan, and you know someone who is also in Manhattan, you will see said person. There’s a statistical algorithm of the negative correlation between the number of friends you have and how good you look, of course, but let’s not get too math-y, so as not to lose you here.

There are enough people in this city to constitute Peak Rush Hour be, actually, four hours (or more, if you’re an unlucky A-trainer), enough people to allow for perpetual street traffic all over the city, foot traffic in the fun neighborhoods, and Trader Joe’s check out lines that wrap around the block after 2:30pm, and yet, without the tiniest hangnail of a doubt, you’ll be in the west village in your crotch-torn paint pants, the shirt sporting the hot wing sauce stains from last night, and your greasy, ratty hair in a frizzy bun, at the height of rush hour, and you’ll stop at the crosswalk, and look up while scratching your inner thigh into the face of that one girl from your freshman dorm seven years ago.
“Sam!?”
“Hm? Who? Me? No.”
“OHMIGOD IT IS YOU! HOW ARE YOU SAM!?”

Well, homeless, apparently …nice to see ya