I just finished reading 1984 this morning. Geez. What a book. For some reason I was under the impression that it had a more optimistic ending. I don't know where I got that idea from. I suppose I just assumed all books had some sort of happy ending, or at least hinted at one. Still, though, it was good stuff. I even danced around my house naked just to celebrate my freedom. Ok. No I didn't. But I thought about doing it. Aha! Take that, totalitarian pigs!

Oddly enough, the book was first published on June 8, 1949. June 8! My birthday! And it refers to the year after my first birthday. How creepy.

Well, actually, it really isn't that creepy. At all, in fact. Unless, of course, one looks at the math. Check this out:

The book was written on June 8, 1949. I was born June 8, 1983. Subracting the two dates gives us 34. The book is called 1984. If we add 34 to that number, we get 2018. Now stay with me: I am 21 right now, so if we subtract my age from 2018, we get 1997. If we take that date, minus the date it was first published, we get 48. Are you seeing what I'm seeing? 48! Flip those numbers around and what do you have? Exactly. You have 84. As in, 1984.

Coincidence? I think not. What does it all mean, you ask? I don't know yet. But it's big. I feel it in my bones. It's gonna be big...