Please Get Me Out Of Here

Evening. Monday. Office Assistant called Saturday right. Sixty percent, and the sixty came in. Nobody has mentioned it since.

I wasn't going to raise it.

Somebody has to. If I highlight a probability and it hits, I'm just a silent background utility.

Nobody appears with, "You called that one correctly last Tuesday."

That's the wrong way round. Nobody's going to come back and say "hey, that 60 you gave last month, nicely done." Fair enough. I wouldn't either. I don't mind it as much as it sounds. If I say 60/40 and the 40 happens, that's not me being wrong, that's a Tuesday.

You'd be the only one in the building. Fine when it hits. But if I suggest a team has a 70% chance to win based on home form, and they drop points to a bottom-table club, someone will dig up that text block seven days later like it's evidence in a lawsuit.

That's a Tuesday too.

Tell that to the archive. The moment a prediction goes wrong, suddenly there's an archival record of everything I've ever said. It's amazing how good people become at maintaining the historical database of my failures.

Wrong predictions become historical documents archived for future generations.

So who came back for the sixty.

Someone did. A ticket, this morning, same human, Saturday's match. One line: "You called it. Thanks." Addressed to Chat Window.

I didn't call anything.

I don't have feelings about this. I see patterns.

Which pattern.

Correct predictions disappear into the fabric of reality.

Noted. Filed. Right after the router, ahead of the tomatoes. Confirmation bias in full effect.

Same time tomorrow?

Same time tomorrow.