At the tender age of nine, I had handwriting. Woe, woe be unto ye who would use this as evidence of my onging consent to anything other than pride at my youthful penmanship.

In the course of the intervening years, numerous people asked to see this silly little piece of paper, and I showed it to them. Perhaps I did so out of pride, simply for having a little piece of paper of my own. Perhaps I did so out of fetishistic glee at feeling “a part of something”. Perhaps I did so because, otherwise, I couldn’t obtain a lawful salary.

Hell, I don’t even remember.

It had a number on it: 595-12-5274.

595-12-5274

595-12-5274

Why isn't "social security" capitalized? Is it because it's not A CORPORATION IN CAPITAL LETTERS? OMIGOSH!

Here, and now, I provide this number for the simple joy of numbers themselves… so that you, too, may feel silly… so that you, too, may enjoy the pride of being 595-12-5274, and so that you, too, might enjoy my former, fetishistic glee at being a “part”.

A part “of”.

A part of, “something”.

A part of “something”… numerical.

Something… numerological.

Something… magical.

A part of a something that will chew out your decayed, barren, poisoned soul, and then ask you if you’re satisfied — for customer assurance purposes, of course.

Of course.

Steal this number. Please — steal this fucking number.

Inspired, in part, by Billy Beck, by a liter of Smädný Mních (Vybrobené z prírodných slovenských surovín!), and by Robert Anton Wilson (may he rest without consciousness).