I sit in my stiff satin slip dress, fingertips tracing the slick, jagged plastic of my winning slammer as I dominate another round of Pogs. The rhythm of *This Is How We Do It* pulses through the speakers, a heavy beat that feels as essential to this moment as the rough texture of my plaid skirt.
I can’t help but notice how the cheap polyester of my tiny backpack catches the light, practically begging for a bit more bling to distract from the gritty news of broken drug rings on the television. This era is a collision of minimalist lines and digital birth, felt through the friction of cardboard discs and the static of a world finally plugging into cyberspace.
Memories from that day
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