Wednesday, January 02, 2008

It even rhymes with hate.

You know what I hate most about the new year? The new number at the end of it.

For the life of me, I can’t seem to write a legible number 8. My hand isn’t quite smart enough to make two ellipses on top of each other. Somehow, all my eights manage to turn out resembling a drunken ampersand or a six with a large wart on its back. So now, whenever I make out a check or fill out a form, the date will read “200&”. Whether banks will accept checks dated for “two-hundred-and”, I have no idea.

Before, I only had to worry about it three times a month (except for dreaded August, where I had to bear with it for thirty-one days). Now, for a whole year, I have to attempt to write an unwritable number. I’m stuck with ocho for 365 days straight.

At least I can be thankful it isn’t the 1980’s anymore. A whole decade of 8’s. I won’t have to worry about something like that happening for another 72 years. I can only hope by 2080 that either computers will have made handwriting a thing of the past or that I’ll be dead already.