4:04 AM (Error)

Logic not found.

So, this is something that is slowly driving me nuts, and that is, logically, there is no significance to be associated with strings of identical numbers, especially date/time stamps. There just isn't, really. So why does the brain latch onto them? Why does that pop up everywhere as something of significance?

Well, like a lot of other answers given: most writers are human, and most readers are human. Human brains are hard-wired toward pattern recognition and the easiest, most obvious pattern is 11:11 11/11/'11 (which happens once or twice per time zone this year, incidentally, depending on if you use military time or not.)

I latch most often onto a string of 1s, if it was non-obvious. 3:33 too.

Short, thumb-typed post because I'm going to enjoy the weekend with a minimum of stress. Delicious holiday pay and rest. Monday is a normal day off for me but hey, getting paid for nothing is kind of awesome.

Money is also kind of awesome.

Oh, two things: one, is anyone else weirded out by M's description (the yellow hoodie mostly) cropping up in the latest Marble Hornets? I'm aware most of the Mythos regards MH as Not Real But Entertaining And Probably Ruined Your Life, while The Tutorial gets an Is Real And Should Be Your First Stop, but it's still creepy.

Two: expect some gushing in the non-distant future about both Rift and League of Legends. That'd be because they're how I'm currently passing my free time. (My otherwise empty work hours are sort-of dedicated to this cross-stitch pattern I'm working on.)

Lastly, why the title? That's when I started this post, silly! ... It's raining again.

Arachnophobia

Tap.
Tap-tap.
Tap-tap-tap.
"Hey, look!" My coworker finally gets my attention. I trail off in the middle of explaining that no, I can't help him; he's got entirely the wrong company to help him, why the hell was he calling me?
Spider.
Small, black, probably harmless, size of a thumbnail.
Everything freezes. Can't hear anything.
Calm. Calm.
Pick up large flat plastic pattern-piece.
Slow, still.
Thwack!
Crumpled up, broken, tiny.
Thwack-thwack!
Dead, crushed.
Sound returns.
Can't focus.
More of them?
No. Probably not.
I don't care about your problem, there's a spider.
Don't say that out loud.
Finish explaining who to call.
Under my chair, no, under the desk, no, behind the computer, no, no, no.
He's gone, type something basic, don't care, going to lunch half-an-hour early, need to calm my nerves. Don't even care.
Spider.
Fuck.
So, hey, I'm a bit of an arachnophobe.
Yep.