I know George Orwell wrote that stupid novel called Nineteen Eighty-Four, but this year was also just another year that regular people could live through; and I was alive back then (having been born in 1977 means that in ’84, I was seven years old); so, please clear your mind of all preconceived notions about this period, because now I’m going to tell you about a party that I went to.
In the middle of a field was an enormous tent. When we entered, there were many women on the tile floor wearing elegant dresses. People were drinking wine out of long-stemmed glasses. On the stage was a band, which played live music throughout the event — this was, in fact, the first musical concert in recorded history. The performance was excellent. I wore a navy blazer with stonewashed jeans that were tastefully airbrushed. Then it got cold, so I left. Just outside of the exit flap was an antibacterial soap dispenser.
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