Who invented math?

I had an uncle once—Dad's little brother, Hale—who claimed that he did, that he'd been plopped down here in time by a demon who wanted to disrupt the universe. The Great Screaming Halt, as he called it, was to occur on November 6, 1988, when a giant slide of glass would float out of the black of the universe and slide as a lens in front of the sun, frying us all. I loved Hale. He'd show up drunk at our house in the middle of the night with all kinds of equations and symbols written on his face and arms, information he said he couldn't afford to lose. Then he and Dad would start arguing about it, Dad being an enthusiastic Christian who believed that the world was going to end not by Hale's abominations but by the ones the Bible tells: fire, plagues, Jesus from the sky, and whatnot. Every time, they'd end up drunk, falling over the floor on each other while I sat and watched, not scared so much as trying to figure out who I wanted to win: Dad or Hale? If they were still going at it when Mom got home, she'd make me go lock myself in the bathroom until the scene broke up (Hale was dangerous, she said; he'd strangled a man); but by then Hale had already made an impression on me. I started trying to come up with my own ideas like Uncle Hale's, based on hours of research and study of numbers barfed out in error by our dot-matrix printer, the static on the TV, what have you. Before Hale died he made real sure that he'd planted his seed inside me—sequestered me with the passion, if you know what I mean, and, really, I point to him as the reason I got interested in school and therefore why I'm sitting here enlightening you and the world's children on the mysteries of science.