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The hand that Lockes the cradle

Well, university is nothing if not a forum for relaying knowledge and the spread of ideas, so I naturally shared the "not really about eating peaches" theory with my best friend and roommate. He considered it, didn't seem quite as taken with it even after "peaches" was replaced, and pointed out that pretty much any song, when you replace the lyrics with something you've chosen yourself, will now be about the thing you've replaced it with. And he was right. For me, when it comes to these numbers, this is kind of like that.

And we flash back to a Hurley who, if I'm not mistaken, actually looks a little slimmer than Island Hurley, although Flashback Hurley is sitting on a couch with a bucket of chicken on the coffee table, flipping through the channels, which include aerobics, avocados, a hoedown, and hockey, like they EVER show hockey on television in L.A. His mother yells from the kitchen that she hopes he's not watching those "G-string [Spanish word that clearly isn't complimentary to the women his mom thinks might be wearing said G-strings]." "Look, Ma, we talked about this. You want me living here, you gotta respect my privacy," like if I were Hurley's age and living at home, I can only imagine my mom deliberately invading my privacy nonstop until I got my ass out of the house. And not satisfied with Hurley's response, Mama comes through the door to tell him that it's Saturday night and he should be out finding himself a senorita. Then she submarines his self-confidence by pointing out he's gaining weight again, an observation I find odd for a couple of reasons. I mean, Hurley's a really big guy, and she's either A) just noticing that, or B) fine with him being, say, 300 pounds, but if he edges up to 305, it's a concern? He ignores her "help" with a countenance that indicates he's heard this before, and instead flips to the televised lottery drawing, which produces those same numbers listed above. Flashback Hurley, of course, doesn't know yet about Rousseau's notes. But he does know, as he checks his ticket, that those are the numbers he picked. And upon realizing this, he faints, as the television bobbleheads talk about the near-record jackpot due to this being the sixteenth week without a winner. Commercials.

Sayid turns over in his sleep in the middle of the night, to find Hurley staring at him. "You awake?" asks Hurley, and Sayid says he was just asking himself that same question. Hurley starts asking, as nonchalantly as he can, about Rousseau's notes, but Sayid says that given it's the middle of the night, maybe Hurley could get to the point. Hurley's incapable of that, though, so he hems and haws and asks what Sayid came up with in terms of theories for the numbers that Rousseau scribbled over and over again. Sayid sort of sits up and says that at one time they thought they might be coordinates. Hurley asks about the cable Sayid followed that led him to Rousseau, and Sayid points out that the cable didn't lead to Rousseau, but to a trap that Rousseau set. And because Hurley is asking all these questions and is carrying a guidebook with The Lonely Planet Guide to the Crazy French Chick's Place emblazoned on the cover, Sayid wants to know why Hurley's suddenly so interested. Hurley says he's not, that he's just making conversation, and he lies about as well as I perform open-heart surgery. Sayid keeps rubbing his eyes, and Hurley walks away, spiriting some of Rousseau's notes under his shirt, which I imagine is an advantage to his size: Sayid's not really going to be suspicious of a bulge.

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