Darkness. Emptiness. Then, suddenly, light. You open your eyes, only to find yourself alone in the guy’s washroom on the fourth floor of Douglas Library. You stumble to your feet, and rubbing your eyes, you wonder why you had to take those extra 6 shots of Smirnoff. So much ragrets. As you drag yourself down the stairs to the exit, you reflect on how amazing your first night at Queen’s University was. Everyone on your floor in Victoria Hall is really cool, and after some brief discussion, you’ve all decided that tomorrow is going to be the first night that you go to visit the student ghetto to give those upper years a good hazing.

So far all of the filthy upper years have managed to avoid you and your friends. In their years at Queen’s, they’ve grown much too comfortable, and after a quick unanimous poll in the “Graduating Class of 2020” Facebook group, it was decided that the second night of orientation week was when you would change up the perpetual cycle of frosh shaming. So, tonight, on the second night of orientation week, you load up your backpacks with the alcohol you had to sneak past your parents, as well as a first aid-kit (because you’re super prepared and really considerate). As you and your animals (i.e. fellow residents of Vic Hall) walk towards the University District, you can practically smell the fear of the upper years wafting down the street. Actually, you CAN smell the upper years. It smells like false confidence. And shit. Lots of shit. It’s been a long time since they’ve had a reason to be afraid of anything besides their GPA, and now that your year has arrived, the wheels of change have begun to turn.

As you arrive at the south side of Aberdeen, you can hear the crowds of unsuspecting young adults drinking and having fun with all of their friends. Their demise will be swift and terrifying. You stand with your friends at the edge of the crowd until a drunk third year ArtSci stumbles out of the crowd. You and the savages quickly grab his wrists and throw him to the ground. You hear the sickening crunch of solo cups being flattened by the third year’s ass. Haha, fucking loser.

A series of piercing cries cleave the air in two. Your initial assault has brought many frosh out of their hiding spots in the bushes and between the buildings, and has spurred them into a feeding frenzy. You hear countless belittling chants, such as: “Go back to your rat holes, vermin” and “no knapsack, no nutsack!”. Across the street, you see two frosh yelling at a fourth year as they do unspeaking things to him with a keg. You can hear him gagging from all the way across the road, but the frosh, mad with power, laugh as tears cascade down the miserable upper year’s face.

All around you, the chaos of an usurping fills your ears with eyes with a level of passion that you haven’t seen since your middle school dances. You smile. This is progress. This is the future.

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