On the Road to Lowell

The drinking – that age-old Kiwi uni habit – had been my focus for the previous two years. Most of my mates seemed to do it and pass their papers, but I wasn’t. I’d drink and drink, and do all this crazy boozy stuff. Look for scraps, take that odd punch, throw one back. Go to parties at flats, and trash them when that certain time of night came.

I’d go to these parties, and look for something real that was happening. Try and find some real connections. Some spark. Some dance. I couldn’t find it. All I found were people like me – lost, it seemed – but with the ability to disguise it much better than I could.