It is the tenth of October twenty twenty-four and this date marks ten years of The Letterist, which if you think about it is a whole decade I’ve spent making a living from spelling dates out in full.
I should begin by pointing out that I’m a perfectionist who likes symmetry and matchy things so the fact that the occasion has three tens in it alone makes me feel fuzzy inside. Ten years, on the tenth day, of the tenth month of year. If it had been ten years on the twenty-seventh of March - I’d likely be less stirred by the occasion, or think to make much of it.
So there is that. It feels kind of mystical and ordained, even though it really was just the day some dude in government signed a document with a big red seal on it that declared my business officially in business.
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