I was five years old when I found out the exact year I was born.
It wasn't because of a deep conversation or a divine epiphany. It was because of a stupid insurance form my mom left on the kitchen table while feeding me cereal.
1975.
There it was. My name, George O'Malley, right next to the number that would completely change my strategy. Because knowing I was born in 1975? That changed everything.
Grey's Anatomy starts in 2005.
That gave me exactly 30 years of advantage. Thirty years to think, plan, and survive. Thirty years to do things right—unlike poor George from the original timeline, who died being too kind and too trusting. Basically, hospital meat.
From then on, every birthday wasn't just cake and balloons. It was a countdown.
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Phase One: Earn credibility without sounding possessed
By the time I was six, I already knew Mike Tyson would go pro in 1985. So I started studying boxing. Not to fight, of course. I have the build of a soggy spaghetti noodle. But I needed to understand the lingo, the names, the terms my dad and his friends threw around during their beer-fueled TV nights filled with spontaneous bets.
My plan was simple: become their "lucky kid."
Sometimes I'd say a name "at random." Or so they thought. Always picking the real winner, of course. When they looked surprised, I'd fake it too.
"Look at that! The kid nailed it again!"
"Must have his grandpa's luck."
Sure, Grandpa. Or maybe it's just the encyclopedic knowledge of the future. Same difference.
Still, I had to be careful. Saying the champ's name with a smile? Harmless. Quoting knockout stats? That raised eyebrows. There's a thin line between "precocious child" and "possessed by the devil."
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Phase Two: Hide information like a Cold War spy
At seven, I started writing with invisible ink. It came in one of those cheap spy toys that kids beg for. For most kids, it's a phase. For me, it was my first secure data archive.
I jotted down names, events, results, technologies, scandals, even business ideas that hadn't happened yet. All organized chronologically in a school notebook covered in dinosaurs.
Nobody suspects dinosaurs.
If someone found it, it would just look like the doodles of a hyperactive child with bad handwriting. Perfect camouflage.
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Phase Three: Infiltrating the firefighter betting ring
At eight, I already knew who to talk to and who to avoid. My dad's coworkers were big guys with names like Chuck or Eddie. Easy to read. I'd sneak into their gatherings pretending to be curious.
"How do you know who's gonna win?"
"You learn with time, kid. Wanna learn?"
Obviously. The more they talked, the more I learned. They told me about betting houses, odds, the difference between legal and illegal. I learned that illegal paid more but was riskier (also, teeth might be a casualty). Legal? Lower payout, but guaranteed.
And I? I nodded like I was just learning to ride a bike. Inside, I was making mental notes like an undercover FBI agent.
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Phase Four: Preschool-level financial planning
My life at home looked normal enough. But that didn't mean I didn't have income.
Sometimes it was lunch money. Other times, it was small "tips" I won from friendly little bets with my dad's friends. Guessing the lottery numbers on the radio, predicting the final score, things like that.
My mom hated it.
"That child's gonna end up in jail with this nonsense, Tom!"
"Aw, it's harmless. Besides, he's smart."
She didn't know I was already planning for Harvard.
Technically, I was a miniature capitalist. And my piggy bank? My first Swiss account.
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Family: The sitcom you can't turn off
My mom was sweet, religious, and firmly believed everything was in God's hands. Which was ironic, since if that were true, I wouldn't be here.
My dad was a tank. Tough, rough, but fair. He taught by example, not lectures. Fixing the sink was his brain surgery. He even let me help, though my tools were plastic.
And my brothers... Jerry and Ronny. Now they were younger than me. That part still messed with my head. Before, they were older. Now I was the role model.
Spoiler: I wasn't great at it.
Sometimes I made them cry with overly complicated games or bizarre bedtime stories about the dangers of unregulated tech companies. I enjoyed seeing how far I could push them before one snapped.
I was basically Malcolm in the Middle. Only older, with a photographic memory and a tendency to plan life like a military campaign.
Which, to be fair, is exactly the vibe of someone who ruins family dinners.
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Nights: When the child becomes the strategist
At night, while everyone else slept, I reviewed the future.
Sports events. Startup launches. Medications not yet invented. Legal reforms. Inventions. People who were still toddlers or unborn.
I thought about everything I could do if only I had the means.
Invest in Apple. Write a paper on laparoscopic surgery before anyone else. Create a hit TV show by stealing a script from 2022.
The possibilities were endless. But I needed money. And that required time.
And subtlety. Lots of it. Last time I said "Steve Jobs" out loud, my mom thought it was a new saint.
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Ten years old, and the plan is set
By the time I turned ten, everything was in place:
1. I had a small but growing reputation among my dad's friends as the kid with uncanny intuition.
2. I had a secret notebook with dozens of future events, sorted by date, financial impact, and risk level.
3. I knew exactly which game, fight, or stock to "invest" in when I got old enough.
4. And most importantly, I knew how to fake normalcy while executing the plan.
My goal isn't just to avoid dying in 2009. It's to reach 2005 as more than just a clumsy intern with a kind heart.
This time, George O'Malley isn't just watching history unfold.
This time, he's going to write it.