This text message honestly happened this morning. Forgive me if it’s not the most hilarious thing you’ve heard in weeks; I don’t get out much and nine-year-old’s are totally NOT FUNNY. So, with that, I nearly pissed myself when I saw this:
Here’s your key:
My boyfriend will be referred to as “THE BF”
His brother will be referred to as “THE BRO”
Text Message arrives:
“THE BRO” What time is the soccer game?
“THE BF” 9
“THE BF” checks his phone, reads the next text, looks at me, pauses, reads it again, I yell at him, (“you’ve got time to read a damn text message but not enough time for a hug!! I’m a raging b*tch these days…FYI), “THE BF” gets flustered, wants to cuss at me, sends a response text, and then stares at me.
Hysterical laughing is coming….
“THE BF” is shocked, and manages to read the text history to me without laughing. Here’s what you missed:
“THE BRO”Received the letter ‘g’, need a number.
OMG… there are so many things about this that are funny!
Who talks like that–in all seriousness. “THE BRO” is commando!
“THE BF” was so confused when that text came in; it literally took him 4.5 minutes to get it. HAHAHA!!
Time for AT&T to update their font! Lawsuit!!
Speaking of upgrades, “THE BF” is the last man standing who still carries a flip phone-side-slide for texting—WORD!
Thank YOU for small moments.
“THE BF” NINE:30A.M
That’s not it folks; “THE BF” hopped into the shower, laughing, of course at “THE BRO.” The shower is a time for inspiration I suppose–after three minutes, “THE BF” bursts into the bedroom…..
“ROB! ROB!” (That’d be me), “I’m gonna text him back now!”
“THE BF”101 Dude….
“Get it, Rob? Get it? Instead of LOL, I sent 101!!”
The number 33has been ruling my life for the past seven years now. I rarely speak about it because my family thinks I’m a big enough weirdo, I was trying to spare them. They almost escaped. Unfortunately (for them), I’m a die-hard BING Reward chaser, and that literally is what cost them.
Let me tell you friends, there are a LOT of people out there like me (YES!), and the association with these numbers consumes them as it does me. I notice it all the time, and everywhere. Like here:
What the Hell am I Talking About?
My dad passed away when I was 33.
He was found dead in his apartment, which was #33.
He would have been sixty-two years old on September 23, 2014.
It Gets So Unbelievable: Are You Buckled Up?
I have been bombarded with the number’s 33 and 333 for a couple weeks now; more so than ever. The frequency of the number sequences has gotten so overwhelming, I started documenting them to prove to those around me that I was still semi-sane.
I came across this discovery as I was searching for past stories I’ve written about my dad. Look at the top left-hand side of this screen shot. Right above a note I wrote about my grandpa.
To me, the numbers have always been positive indicators. They have always reminded me my dad was still here. They’ve busted me acting up, as a reminder that I’m not alone and provide encouragement to forge ahead. I know I’m a weirdo–Keep reading, it’s about to get better.
My relationship with my dad was rocky from the start. To say we bumped heads would be an understatement. He and I clashed, and it sucked.
I never understood how to communicate with him, always fought for his attention and mimicked his stubbornness, especially while under the influence of beer. I didn’t get his approval, or accolades, or support, or encouragement-from him, I got a lot of “blah”.
That all changed a couple years before he died. The last years with him were good. He was present, watched my boys, tried to follow along with my life, and evolved into a pleasant man. Although we got on each other’s nerves, it wasn’t as bad as the previous years.
So, Back to The 3’s
I noticed the number three and its correlation to my dad pretty soon after his death. As you can imagine, I also began to notice the number’s 33 and 333 more often.
At first, I’d see the numbers and think it was cool, and sent a shout out to my dad. There was peace that gave me the sense of knowing, (in my weird way) that he was still around, looking out for my me, my kids, and my sister. No one else in the family had this connection, so I felt special.
Overwhelming feelings of gravitation toward recognizing the presence of these numbers has gnawed at me for the past seven years. It’s as if they are trying to say the meaning is greater than what I am interpreting.
I know it’s irritating, but I can’t help it. I built to process things differently than most-God knows I’ve spent years trying to change it, but I have no choice. I over-analyze, and literally drive myself crazy, trying to find more; which in all honesty, drives everybody else crazier than it does me.
Naturally, that makes me pursue it further, and that’s exactly what I did today.
I have NO IDEA why but in seven years, I’ve never put any real research into this phenomenon. I’ve talked about it, posted pictures on Facebook, made anyone near me stop to look at the clock when I’ve caught it at 3:33, but I never looked into an actual meaning before now.
It was September 23, 2014, and it was a long one full of thought, disbelief, confusion, and excitement. If everything adds up—what does it all mean?
Let’s just say I was a bit shocked at the results, as I read some philosophy behind the meaning. Let’s break it down according to Creative Numerology.
Who wants to know what my numbers are?
September 23, 2014
I went on to break down every birthday I could think of; family members, friends, strangers… NO ONE else has a life number of 3. So, what does it all mean? I’m exploring more. I’ll be back. Leave an opinion if you’ve got one.
I’d like to gracefully dive back in as a writer who shares a unique voice, and a seat at lunch with Oprah; however, I’m belly flopping into content marketing and sharing a seat at lunch with the cool kids at every writing forum I can find.
Well played Facebook, and the geniuses who run the marketing department. This advertisement just showed up in my News Feed. Ironic? Hardly. I’ve spent the last few days creating blogs like a machine (no kids this weekend!), and what-do-ya-know? The crickets are back, and my posts are going unnoticed.
I guess I need to get with the program.
Create Better Blogs For People to “Pretend” to Read
Start Writing During the Week Like Normal People
Wait Until Christmas Eve to Post My Next Masterpiece.
Right? I mean, it’s only the last week of summer… I can’t be the only loser protecting my skin from cancer by parking it on the couch. Right?
Keep scrolling…I’d like to answer Facebook’s question….
Dear Marketing Stalkers at Facebook,
Thanks for the cool ad today. You’ve obviously been paying close attention to my blog. Whoot! Whoot! It looks like I’m not the only one working today either–the robots are still clocked in. Boo!
To answer your question:
FACEBOOK: “Tired of Writing Great Articles that Nobody Reads?”
LOSER BLOGGER: “No! I’m not tired of creating hilarious blog posts for my MOM to read. She’s a HUGE fan. Personally, I think I’ll just grab a piece of scented stationary and a pen for the next blog. I’ll whip up some fancy paragraphs full of calligraphy and send the post directly to her mail box. It’ll be cool.”
Over the course of my history on Facebook, I have shared everything about my life. Here is one from the archives that has put a little pressure on me. In 2009, I had a goal— Oops! I had 4 years and 364 days to accomplish it but like always, I’ve procrastinated. 100 days to go….
I’m not really sure how it all happened but at the age of 31, and with very little effort, I became a freelance writer.
In 2006 I began writing 500-700 word articles that were keyword specific, Search Engine Optimized and rewrites. Each article required research, links, and unique content. I was working full-time as a poker dealer during the day but at night, I was living the glamorous life of a writer.
Let me back up, I can’t remember if I ever consciously thought about, or wanted to be a writer. I kept a journal consistently during high school and early into my 20s. As the years went on, my journal became a place for vulnerability and a sort of poetry.
I wanted to write songs but didn’t know how to play an instrument so that seemed impossible. I wrote words instead.
Sometimes I cut words out of magazines and arranged them to create “tragic” poetry—would be lyrics–if I only knew three guitar chords.
When the world shifted from ink pens to keyboards, I was SCREWED!
How the hell could computers not be a passing fancy? In high school I laughed at the typing class students (because I was so cool, being in the F.F.A and all) and swore, I would never learn to type (or sew—two decisions I grew to regret).
I went a very long time defending my high school stance and upholding the anti-typing vow.
The Beginning of My Freelance Career
I had giant balls in January, 2006 when I decided to submit a personal essay about being a new mother to a writing site. Imagine my surprise when two weeks later I received this email,
“Robin, I’d love to feature this story on my website as it is creative, humorous, and a fun read. I did edit the text quite a bit to adhere to the guidelines of writing for the Web, and to correct grammar and punctuation errors. I look forward to future submissions and strongly recommend a refresher in grammar.”
Holy crap! I was going to be famous!
Naturally, This is What I Did Next
I applied for writing jobs. Literally, thought I was on my way to a feature in Vogue.
I got my first gig within no time.
My “editor” sent five orders at a time. I didn’t choose the topic or negotiate word count or any details. The instructions for each article were simple. I didn’t know then but I know now-I was being primed for sweat-shop labor in the content mill industry.
This is what I received:
Topic to research (ex: Summer vacation in Paris, France-Things to do, places to stay, etc.)
Required keywords and density (ex: 15%)
Required word count (MIN 500/Maximum 1,000)
Deadline (ex: 24 hours)
Rate of pay
I spent hours perfecting each piece. I researched hostels, sightseeing, foreign travel tips, and fun ideas for the International traveler. I was bored to death and frustrated easily and considered myself to be a tortured writer like all the most famous ones before me.
I wrote a paragraph and then hastily deleted it — called it junk —in obvious imitation of the writer’s I envisioned in my head. I cured writers block with mundane tasks like preparing dinner and worked furiously into the wee hours of the morning.
I thought I was Tolstoy.
I was writing website content.
As a ghostwriter.
For a ghostwriter.
Outsourcing Writer Actually Taught Me How to Write
I had no concept that my “work”–expertly crafted with proper keyword density and links to destinations in Paris–would be credited to some chump writer who had perfectly executed the system of Capitalism.
I knew right away that I was doing something right when after the first 5-10 articles; I received no revision requests or notes about editing. I sucked at punctuation (still do) and was honest about appreciating constructive feedback. I was inundated with requests to write more and was on cloud nine every time she commented on my skill as a writer.
BAM! I was in….
I landed this gig after to replying to a job posting and WAS THRILLED to have “finally” made it into the world of writers.
I was being paid $1-$3 per article. HAHAHAHA…..
I didn’t know enough to bitch about it.
It didn’t take me long to see I was being “scammed” by another writer. I was so new and naive but extremely arrogant as well.
I refused to read articles that offered advice to new writers. I wanted to figure it all out myself. I didn’t want to spend hours researching the industry of writing.
I just wanted to write….and, meet Oprah.
After all, I was published online after my very FIRST submission. DUH! I was a natural.
Today, I am writing full-time, learning about punctuation, and developing a career that I’m proud of.
I’ve had to put the creative writing on-hold for the moment, but I’m not going to give up. I’ve still got some junk in the trunk that’s gonna need some editing, and a place to live.