The champagne bottle opened. The cork flew. The bubbles fizzled. The New Year had arrived.
“Welcome to 1999 everybody!” The host shouted.
“Resolutions! Resolutions!” A particular festive (and drunk) party-goer screamed from the background.
“I’m getting my dot-com off the ground this year!” Shouted Jenkins.
“I’m going to Jazzercise until 2099!” Shrieked Tomas from across the room. Everyone knew he’d be long dead by then. Probably from jazzercising, but the energy was appreciated.
Debbie stood in the corner of the room, listening to others call out their plans. “Cash in on Beanie Babies” and “Figure out how to marry Freddie Prinze Jr.” were popular. Debbie pondered what her resolution would be for the year.
“I’m going to do whatever it takes to ensure JNCO jeans are dead and gone before I meet my end,” Debbie said, sneering and suddenly wielding a hunting knife.
The party quieted. The attendees stared at anything but Debbie.
“I’m going to let my Tomagotchi die. That thing is stressing me out,” said Francine, breaking the silence.
1999 was going to be one heck of a year.
Thanks for reading!