Digital clocks: An OCD's nightmare

The blue LED readout on the kitchen stove always finds a way to scare the fuck out of me. This morning it read 7:37.
To most people this means nothing.
To me, it means 737. The exact same 737 I’ll board later this week to go to Vegas, which now I’m certain will go down like Sasha Grey.
It’s not always a plane crash. but it’s never a happy association either.
Like 3:57. That’s four o’clock to most.
To me it’s a bellwether, reminding me there’s a 357 in the closet with my name on one of its bullets.
Why can’t I be like everyone else? Why can’t I glance at it when it’s 4:20, or 11:11?
No, I have to look at the clock when it’s 4:34. The address where my grandparents used to reside —where grandpa caught me playing doctor with the neighbor kid and made me go apologize to her parents. I wished I had the 357 then.
But the worst is 5:42, reminding me of how getting shitballs drunk the night before my SAT’s wasn’t such a brilliant idea after all.

I hate digital clocks.