THERE ARE FOUR TYPES OF PEOPLE AT OTAGO UNIVERSITY
T
he first type, often a Castle Street resident, is septum-deep in their “drug phase” – that sacred, rarefied time in most people’s lives in which drugs are the pinnacle of cool, and the user believes themselves to be equally cool by association. They will
boast incessantly to anyone under the age of 30 about how they’ve taken “every drug there is, except P”. When you point out that there are more drugs than weed, pills and P, they will mumble something about how they can “definitely get some acid”. May dabble in dealing to subsidise the Fear and Loathing poster on their TradeMe watchlist. The second type, likely a fresher, is pre-drug phase. Drugs kinda terrify them, but they have just purchased a really crappy pill (“definitely MDMA, bro”) from a super-cool second-year friend of someone on their floor for the bargain price of $60. They will save their purchase for re-O, awaiting this pyschoactive awakening with a mixture of excitement and trepidation, and possibly reading decade-old MDMA “trip reports” on Erowid. Sadly, the likelihood of said pill containing 3,4-methyenedioxy-N-methylamphetamine is equivalent to the likelihood of said fresher getting into their restricted-entry course in second year. The third type, usually third-year or older, is post-drug phase. They have abused the shit out of their nostrils and lungs for a solid, sustained period of time at some point; the novelty of substance use has almost entirely worn off; they no longer consider drugs particularly cool, especially at Dunedin prices; they may even purport to be “kinda over drugs” and reminisce about the good old days when pills were “totally worth the comedown”. None of this actually precludes them from both getting baked and snorting mephedrone on a semi-regular to regular basis. The fourth type does not need an age bracket. There are no age limits on being a codehead Neanderthal from Riverton who hates drugs more than the Crusaders but consumes three boxes of Speights and a bottle of CC every week before staggering home from Alibi to shove his semi-soft dick into his missus’ stubbly snatch.
Critic Issue 11
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