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This story is dredged from the depths of my memory, and is one of my favorites about myself. I don't particularly remember it happening, but it's been corroborated enough times for me to believe it. It's the kind of story you can't make up.
Way back when I was but a wee young lad, only five or six, my brother tried to teach me math. Ben is two and a half years older than me, and for years I thought he was the academic bees knees. Heck, I still think he's the academic bee's knees, especially when it comes to math. He majored in math. He's a math wizard. He's positively mathemagical, and has always been so. I was moderately mathematically inclined, but never even approached his precociousness. Ben's gift for navigating the exact and exacting work of complex mathematical theory boggles me. And like his craft, he is a very precise individual. So this was the person trying to teach elementary math to his little brother with the attitude and energy level of a coke-addled bumblebee.
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