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You ever notice how certain numbers just have this weird, eerie reputation? Like, why does the number 666 get such a bad rap? It's like the bad boy of numbers. I mean, imagine being a number and having a whole horror movie franchise about you. "666: The Number Strikes Back" – it's like a mathematician's nightmare. I tried dialing it once just for kicks, you know? Just to see if the Devil would pick up, maybe offer me a deal on my student loans or something. But all I got was this automated voicemail saying, "Sorry, Satan is not available right now. Please leave a message after the fire and brimstone." And no call back! What's up with that?
Maybe 666 is just misunderstood. Like, maybe it's the number of the Beast, but it's also the Beast's favorite ice cream flavor. "Satan, what's your favorite ice cream?" "666, obviously!"
Seems like the Devil needs a new publicist or something. "Hey, Satan, we're rebranding you. Instead of 666, you're now 777 – the lucky Devil!" Just imagine the slot machines in Hell. Jackpot! But seriously, folks, why can't numbers just be numbers? Leave 666 alone. It's just trying to live its numerical life.
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So, I have this ghost writer, right? And they love leaving me these mysterious notes. Last week, I found one that just said, "9." Just the number 9. I'm like, "What am I supposed to do with this, start a countdown?" Maybe it's a rating. "On a scale from 1 to 10, you're a solid 9." Thanks, ghost writer, but I prefer compliments in words, not digits. I want someone to look at me and say, "You're a strong 11." Go big or go home!
I tried incorporating the number into my day. "I'll eat 9 almonds, take 9 steps at a time, and speak in 9-word sentences." Spoiler alert: it didn't make my life any more interesting.
But seriously, ghost writer, if you're watching, how about some clear instructions next time? Maybe a note that says, "Tell a joke about numbers." Oh wait, I just did. Boom! Revenge is sweet, even if it's a bit numerical.
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So, the other day, I found this cryptic note on my fridge: "3629." I'm staring at it, thinking, "Is this the combination to the secret snack drawer? Did my fridge just become Fort Knox?" I tried saying it out loud in case it's a magic spell. "Three, six, twenty-nine!" Nothing happened. Maybe it's a password to my WiFi that I forgot. I'm typing it in, waiting for the connection like, "Come on, internet, open sesame!"
But it turns out my ghost writer just jotted down the number of calories I burned during my last workout. Thanks for the reminder, ghost writer. You could've just written, "Good job on the treadmill," instead of making me feel like I stumbled upon the Da Vinci Code in my kitchen.
Maybe I should start leaving mysterious notes around too. "Hey, ghost writer, the secret to life is 8675309." Good luck deciphering that one!
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You ever feel like numbers are conspiring against you? Like, they're planning something in the background, whispering secrets to each other, and you're just there trying to balance your checkbook. I was at the grocery store the other day, and my total came out to $66.62. I'm staring at the receipt, thinking, "Is this a sign? Should I be worried?" The cashier probably thought I was trying to summon a discount or something.
And have you noticed how elevators never have a 13th floor? They go straight from 12 to 14. What's the deal, architects? Did 13 offend you? Did you have a bad experience with 13 once, and now it's banned from buildings?
I bet there's a secret society of numbers, and 13 is the black sheep. "Sorry, 13, you're not allowed in the secret clubhouse. Go hang out with imaginary numbers in the complex plane.
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