At 7:15pm on Tuesday, sheet-clad students gathered in the Hunter Lounge, anxious, excited, and all too aware they had arrived way too fucking early.
HUGE were in the foyer with their notoriously delicious waffles. We hope they managed to talk about God over the thrashing beats.
Face painting was an unexpected hit, confirming that we’re all still children at heart.
Students skulled Tuatara craft beer by the jug, and joined the ranks of some of the most pretentious students in the country.
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As always there was a copious amount of vomit. Free water was given away and a safe room was available for tragic cases.
The smoker’s area caused little trouble, and not many students bothered to make the hike. Maybe smoking isn’t cool anymore?
Too suave for a toga, a lone jazz student wore a suit and top hat. He claimed to wear a suit almost every day. We’ll see how long that lasts.
Other honourable mentions include a guy who rocked a neon yellow bucket hat, a guy with a heart shaved into his hairy chest, and the Weir RAs who danced shamelessly in their sneakers.
Fists were pumped, lanyards swung, and tongues were tangled on the sweaty dance floor. Love and lust blossomed between sheets and in dark corners.
One student planned to spend the rest of the week “just straight sussing out Wellington,” and observed that when attending a toga party, “you’ve just gotta go in with the right attitude.”
Another student said they were having an amazing time, but knowingly quipped “ask me again in the morning.”
By 11:30pm the students had filtered out, their sheets somewhat askew, but still usable for when they inevitably crashed.
Another year, another toga party.