In my version of hell, I’m always going to the dentist. I’m feeling their rubber gloves against my slimy teeth, listening to Amy Grant on the office speakers, and getting sprayed with cotton candy flavored cleaner. And they’re drilling. By golly, are they ever drilling.
The crowd gets excited to hear something familiar in a new way. It’s same way people go crazy at a Dave Matthews Band show when they hear the first few chords of “All Along The Watchtower.” The pleasure of being surprised with something familiar provides the rush of the unexpected without the anxiety of the unknown.
Once I had a beard, and longer hair. I wore whatever I wanted. My actions were derived from conscious choices. Spare time was abundant and used to nourish my mind, my body, and my soul. I moved often, sometimes on a whim, but mainly to find a better job. No one told me where to go. No one held my hand. There was no plan. There was no paperwork. There was just me: my mind, my dreams, my life, and my choices. I loved it.
In a perfect world, everyone you loved would love you back. It’d be as easy as 1, 2, 3. “Oh, you love me? I love you back then. No questions asked.” There’d be no unreturned texts, no jabs, no infidelity. They’d be exactly how you want them to be.
Chances are if you were born in the 80s your parents were Baby Boomers, who, after a wild foray into hippie culture at their tertiary educational facility in the 70s, realized that it was time to put down the bong, buy a house, get a job in the public sector and start raising a family. And what better time, they thought, than the 80s.