If the ipod were a religion, baptize me.

For those of you who know me, you know that I am a BIG, HUGE, for those of you who still think this word is original, "GI-NORMOUS," fan of the Backstreet Boys. They were the only boys who were there for me when I was 12 and even more painfully awkward than I might be right now. Every good BSB ballad is an angst filled tribute to love, usually bad love or love gone wrong, with a key change so intense, so powerful, it rips into your heart like Beaches, Steel Magnolias, Terms of Endearment and (spoiler alert) every other movie that Julia Roberts, or an actress similar to her, dies in. Their songs are more heartfelt than any episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, more emotional than an American Idol farewell montage, and more romantic than a sheepskin rug, the beach at sunset, OR late night runs to McDonalds. With the invention of the ipod, I have been able to carry my BSB collection in my pocket everywhere I go. I wasn't a believer in the ipod when it was invented. I bought my first and only ipod in May of 2005 at NYU's computer store. It was the strangest piece of technology I had ever operated. THEN, after I finally figured out how it worked, something amazing, something beautiful, something only someone with the same love of BSB could understand and I was an ipod believer. It was fall 2005:

Insert dream like music.

Dissolve to: Spring St. right outside the C/E Train exit

I was coming home from a successful interview for a potential internship, this time at the Montel Williams Show, (yes, MONTEL) feeling especially like a hip New Yorker in my new, very professional looking black pea coat. At the moment I was soaring because I was listening to "Incomplete" from my boys' album Never Gone.

(Imagine these lyrics sung by beautiful boys with perfect harmony.)

"I don't wanna drag it on,
but I can't seem to let you go,
I don't wanna make you
face this world aaaaaaaallloooooooooone!"

(Pause...
followed by heartbreaking key change)

"I TRIED
to go on like I never knew you...."

It was during the pause that I looked up and saw Mr. Bloom. Mr. ORLANDO BLOOM! At first glance, I thought, do I know him? Then it hit me like my older sister Ashley used to do when she claimed that everything I did was irritating, including my breathing patterns: I am staring at LEGOLAS. He took another puff of his cigarette and our eyes met. For a good 10 seconds, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, we made eye contact.

The song was blaring, my heart was rushing: Orlando Bloom was staring at me. In my eyes, he probably saw a look of love. In his eyes, I saw, "Don't make a scene, but yes, I love you too..."

After I realized what was happening, I quickly turned my head away and floated down Spring St. I traveled half a block and turned around to look behind. He was still standing there. All alone. After another block, I wanted to go back and profess my love but when I turned around he was out of my view and out of my life forever.

The Backstreet Boys song ended, I continued to walk towards Broadway and my sad existence in the Broome St. Dorms. Not wanting the moment to end, I repeated "Incomplete" and it was clear that my life would be incomplete with out him.

Fade out:

End Scene.

Every time my ipod randomly shuffles onto this immortal song, I cry one tear, in honor of Mr. Bloom. Bless the Backstreet Boys. Bless Mr. Bloom. Bless New York City. Bless my sweet little green ipod mini.

Like I said, if the ipod were a religion, baptize me.