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1,000 times nullus

A while back, probably around the time they let go of Noz, it occurred to me that I’d eventually reach the 1,000 posts milestone. I was in my fourth year, and if you do the math, I do about 250 of these a year. My 1,000th post seemed like as good a time as any to gloat about the fact that I had the balls to continue to collect free money, rather than walk away with my tail between my legs, then turn right around and put my hand out for donations. lol jk

I used to celebrate these post milestones every now and again. I remember I did one for my one hundredth post, that included a list of humorously underhanded thank yous to the staff here at the time, including the likes of Tara Henley and DJ Drama, in reverse order according to whiteness. That was a hard list to put together!

The idea was to take a little time to look back every hundred posts or so, which is a lot if you’re like me in that at that point you’d hardly ever written anything of any significant length that wasn’t for school or some shit. To think, I used to dread writing those dumbass five paragraph essays they make you write in high school, and now I was writing more words than that day in and day out. 100 posts x 800 or so words per = 80,000. Most books are only about 90,000 words, if that.

But then I got better at what I was doing, and 200 posts didn’t seem like as much of an achievement, and it was hard to keep track of exactly how many posts I’d written anyway. I started posting a list of my 25 best posts each year, around the time in the spring when I began working for XXL, and that’s about it. I remember thinking about doing a post commemorating my five hundredth post, but I can’t remember if I did one or not.

My 1,000th post would have hit the Internets around the time I “celebrated” my fourth anniversary here, this past March, except for the fact that every now and again I miss a day, because of the work I have to do absorbing verbal abuse from menopausal in order to subsidize hip-hop journalism,  and because, let’s keep it real, I’m (nominally) black, and black people can only ever show up to work but so many days in a row. It’s only a matter of time before the human genome project isolates that strand of our DNA. They may have already found it, but it’s being suppressed for purposes of political correctness.

Speaking of which, there’s also the fact that so many of my posts have disappeared due to a software glitch where posts on certain topics seem to just up and disappear into the ether minutes or sometimes hours after they hit the Internets. I honestly have no idea exactly how many posts that applies to. It could be a solid month’s worth, it could be more, or it could be less. I don’t keep track. I could sit there and throw a bitchfit every time my freedom of speech is violated (I thought this was America?), but then I’d just end up buying and selling records on eBay for a living.

Stack Bundles’ corpse’s ego is not worth having to cut back my prodigious alcohol intake.

It occurred to me a few weeks ago that I should be getting near my 1,000th post. I counted, which wasn’t as hard or as time consuming as you’d think (via cunning use of this site’s archives), and I was at about 950. I figured I’d get there in about two months, give or take, depending on if I made it to work every day, and there wasn’t “an incident.” I knew it would be at some point in July, towards the end of the month.

It’s too bad Pitchfork takes place during the third week of July. I ended up forgetting all about trying to keep track of when I published my 1,000th post. It used to be I had a hard enough time just posting anything away from home. I’d pay all of this money just to go somewhere and spend half the day sitting around in a hotel trying to find sex humor in stories of black social dysfunction. That’s back when I didn’t know what I was doing. These days, I wouldn’t spend more than an hour writing a post, unless it’s something I feel very strongly about. Nhjic.

The other day, I counted again, thinking I should be within about five posts. Come to find out, I had understand estimated myself (c) Mary J Blige. I was already at 1,003 posts. My 1,000th post was that one on chicks trying to accuse fat rapper of raping them, because no one would believe an attractive woman would purposely consent to having sex with a fat guy, even if he had a shedload of money. I wrote it in Chicago, while I was there for Pitchfork, probably (almost certainly) after using the complimentary wifi to look at Internets pr0n, Spanktravision-style.


Part of me wished that management would retroactively censor that post about Lil B pulling his pud with other guys in the room, so I’d have another crack at it, but there’s a part of me that found it oddly appropriate. If it wasn’t for XXL, I probably wouldn’t have been able to travel in the first place, but if I wasn’t stuck in such a rut, I wouldn’t have to spend so much time dwelling on what exactly constitutes consensual sex. Worst case scenario, I could just pay.

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