Edge of seventeen

Somewhere back in the mists of elementary school, it seemed prudent to acquire a lucky number. So I did. I decided 17 was my lucky number. I haven't the slightest foggiest whateverest idea why.

Okay, not quite true. Some ponderance has gone into this. One theory I occasionally toy with ties into the traditional birthdate of my childhood stuffed animal-in-chief Rolf being ascribed to January 17. (The preceding was possibly the greatest sentence I have ever written.) However, I have a distinct recollection dating back to some point closer to this era that the Rolf connection was identified and rejected as some sort of coincidence.

This evening, though, comes some food for thought from science's finest minds. Turns out that I might not be the only person with a 17 fixation. Which is odd, come to think of it, because I never recall running into to trouble fighting with other kids for the "rights" to the number when the matter of sports teams and so on came up.

In other news, Pandora has been pleasing lately in its capacity to play multiple non-shit songs in a row, I have rediscovered my heartfelt affection for Pizza Pops, and I am ready to take the big step and start using blog labels.