YOLO Boy
Signing up to the Critic blind date and committing to a half-marathon all in one week, all in the name of YOLO. I didn’t know which would be worse. After a few Coronas for the nerves, off to Angus I went. A few friends bunkered down in the bar to spy and provide emotional support should my date be a filthy fresher or a fifth-year cat-lover – turned out to be a bloody brilliant date. After a bottle of wine, awesome dinner and Patrón shots, it was off to town. Chur to Angus’ Emma – fucking GC.Hitting up the nearest sports bar like the classy Scarfies we are, we decided to call YOLO and go for more tequila shots. We were in it for a good time, not a long time. Nerves were gone and the chat was flowing well. We took to the streets and before long we were dangerously close to the ocean. Finding the perfect place to chill for a chat on a jetty, this lasted all of 10 seconds before the dares began. Seeing how far we could push each other and enforcing our YOLO mantra, we dabbled in a quick skinny dip. Clothes gone, I had clearly forgotten I was in the South Island: the ocean was as cold as a nun’s cunt. After proving we were the most spontaneous mother-flippers out, we clambered back into our clothing, dying from a mix of hypothermia and laughter. On our walk back, we stopped at a random flat to meet the inhabitants and their keg. I discovered my date could keg stand longer than I, this girl is pretty impressive.
We went to Macs bar for a nightcap, then wandered a bit more, discussing the deeper complexities of life with a pash or two in between. With her flatmates down the road and mine on the way, we decided to part after a surprisingly good date. Swapping numbers and arranging a second, we ended the night. I am still figuring out how we did so much in such little time. I couldn’t move until 4pm the next day.
YOLO Girl
Entering my third year of university single, rumours were beginning to spark among family and friends that I was a lesbian. In an effort to curb the speculation and being at a time in my life where I am ready to meet the man to father my children, the unfortunate words “Fuck it. YOLO” slipped out of my mouth as a friend pulled out of her blind date and needed some one to fill in.While a cheeky bottle of Sav was successfully taking its toll on me, I turned up to Angus where bartender Jade managed to calm my nerves, and I was greeted with probably the politest young lad I had ever met. Dinner, endless chat and the bar tab behind us, we rolled out into the unsuspecting night.
Shots seemed to be the specialty of the evening; we made sure we were properly juiced up to carry us into our next adventure – a massive fucking walk to the ocean. Sitting beside a miniature jetty feeling like rebellious teenagers, we began a game of “Truth, Dare, Double Dare.” One thing led to another and we stripped down to our bare minimums. I managed to dare him into going for the full jump. It took one dip and you could tell this boy wasn’t cut out for the southern seas.
I pussied out and insisted we headed back to some sort of civilisation – which turned out to be some hippies in a flat with a random keg out front. Score! Our newfound friendships got us a keg stand or two, but shit turned shady and we decided to bounce before the crack-pipe was lit.
We made it back to the Octagon alive and slid into Macs bar. Some more drinks down us, we had reached a level of drunk where YOLO was a part of every sentence and mad chats were forming. We ended up aimlessly wandering and found ourselves running away from Joan the Butcher, calling for assistance from our loyal friends and parting ways after swapping necessary details and salivary fluids.