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May 24, 2010 | by  | in Opinion |
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I am the most smartest!

“What the hell is this? I ordered vodka, not ICE!”

Student night. Isn’t it beautiful?

Actually, it probably isn’t. Close to midnight on a Wednesday I can be found eating an amalgam of lunch, mid-afternoon snackage, and dinner after work at Wellington’s best kept Chinese food takeout. Between inhaling what I would term ‘questionable meat’ and wolfing down a vanilla coke, a gross spectacle of human behaviour plays out before me. With dinner and a free show, it’s no wonder I keep going back.

The first week of dinner at the Chinese holy land was during the semester break. Wide-eyed first years began toddling through around midnight, mascara running and boyfriends lacking, in search of greasy food. Unnecessary Maccas has nothing on this place. A friend and I watched in amazement as they spent ten minutes ordering their food. In the end, the smallest of the group removed her shoes in an effort to increase her ordering capabilities. I’m still wondering how this helped. Encased in sheer pantyhose, her mission of leaving the establishment was hindered as she crossed the floor, slipping near my table. I stifled a giggle.

“Oy! Watch out for this floor!” she called to her friends, “It’s like, dangerous. A health hazard!”

So perhaps student night isn’t all it was cracked up to be. The following week, as I ate something I wasn’t entirely sure of, a young man staggered in, possibly unaware he was even in a Chinese takeout. He sat down at our table and inquired as to whether my friend was going to eat her food. I cupped mine protectively, slowly drawing it back towards me. After explaining that yes, she did intend to eat her combination fried rice, he appeared deflated… Only to ask if he could watch her eat it. That night I learned a valuable lesson; watching food consumption is just as effective as eating it for a man with a serious case of the munchies.

My views of student night I had before I started at Victoria were diminishing. One week, a shaggy man waltzed in with his skateboard, screaming about how fucking awesome he was and how great all the food looked. I couldn’t disagree with him; questionable meat has become my favourite dish. But he was acting rather strangely, and after an intense discussion about what illicit substances this man could be on, we decided we probably knew too much and avoided eye contact with him.

During my first year, I spent Wednesdays crawling from bar to bar and dragging my sorry arse into STAT193 on a Thursday afternoon. On Wednesdays, I rejoiced at my pay cheque hitting my account at midnight, allowing me to race around Wellington and purchase all manner of terrible vodka-fruity mixed concoctions for a reasonable price. But after seeing the other side of student night, with its drunken antics and washed-out make-out, Wednesday just means one thing:

“Hi! Can I grab two choices of noodles… Aaaaand two of the questionable meat at the front?”

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