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  • Feeling like a lion in a room full of vultures; I survey the scenario before me. White walls surround podiums shelving Fabergé eggs that glisten under their respective spotlights. I’m of the impression that I’m looking rather shabby in my vest and slippers. Loose threads hang from my brown, grubby, corduroy jacket and, having forgotten to wear a belt, I am irritated by the continuous requirement to re-adjust my trousers.

    Further frustrated at the fact that I still have still yet to complete my Rubik’s cube; I toss it into a nearby bin, causing a clattering sound that drowns out the pianist for a mere moment. Some of the guests briefly glance at me with the same dismissively scornful expression before returning to their cucumber sandwiches, chilled champagne, and fabricated verbal pleasantries.

    Feigning common interests with these spurious people is not really an option for me and, as such, I think it’s time to leave.
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