Muck-up day
Comments (0) Sometimes I look back at my studenthood and realise that it’s the most exciting, enthusiastic and crazy chapter of my life’s autobiography. This chapter began on the day that finished my high school time, the muck-up day.
Two days ago when I was coming home from the uni, I witnessed a large mob of year-12 Aussie students rushing along Glenferrie road, Hawthorn, yelling like crazy football fans and throwing eggs onto the streets. Some naughty ones had their shirt off and wore black balaclavas (kind of hat covering the whole head except two eyes). I didn’t even know what was going on. It was so funnie, crazie and… undeniably unbearable. A day after, news about foolish Xavier students appeared everywhere: on TV, newspaper, youtube and even in young people’s pieces of gossip. People call them wild pupils. The Xavier principal asserts that they betrayed the school and betrayed themselves. For god’s sake, I meet those pupils every morning on the tram 16 going to Swinburne uni. They are so nice and talkative, especially the girls, just so mint!
I remember a book named “The winter of our discontent” by John Steinbeck. A whole book is indeed an insipid fiction, except the final chapter reminding what we have had in our life. Just look back the past. Is there a distilled essence of nastiness inside us? You see, the answer is yep, at least at the final chapter. So don’t blame it on them, at least when they are closing the final chapter of their own novel.
How’z about my muck-up day? It was merely unforgettable. Our two little girls cried like children crying out before they are hurt. Our guys, exactly twenty one, went into the lift taking some photos. It rained cats and dogs and we shared gossip until midnight. Looking back 2 months before this muck-up day, we had a two-day “muck-up” camp as well. Some were drunk, some climbed over the fence to buy more drink at midnight, some called his ex to say i’m so sorry baby, some played the guitar alone, as crazy as those wild Xavier’s. Whatever, it’s not a shame, a dent, or something like that. Just a bookmark retained in memory that sometimes we turn it back, let off the steam, and smile.
