And it wasn’t just my family who worshipped Satan on speed-dial, either. No, everybody in town was saddled with the same three-digit prefix, making it completely casual within city limits but unique and hard-to-explain beyond our borders.
“Six-six-six,” we’d recite on the phone to the insurance company operator or catalogue-company helpdesk, only to be cut off with a stone cold pause and a loud gulp.
“No, no, honestly, that’s the number,” we’d continue, trying to defend the devilish digits donated to us by the telephone company. “Now can I please order the Magnavox Laser Disc player?”
Yes, it was terrible, but it sure made me appreciate the power of numbers.
So today we say: if you have a lucky number, love it lots! Keep it as your PIN, tattoo it on your arm, mark it as your anniversary.
Because believe me.
The opposite is a real pain in the
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