Dink's Hangout
Introduce myself to strangers on the internet? Safe. Sensible. Mum would love this.
Kia ora. I'm Dink Rosser.
I'm eighteen, from Wairoa, and studying a Bachelor of Science in Health and Physical Education in Auckland, which sounds much more organised than the person actually doing it.
This is my corner of the internet. It contains the people I know, the books I apparently filled by writing down everything I should have kept private, and enough evidence to make several future conversations deeply uncomfortable.
Come in. Have a look around.
Please don't touch anything. I won't know where it belongs.
The People I Know
These are a few of the people who wandered into my life and then, through poor judgement or administrative error, stayed there.
The full gang is on the character page. This is the quick version for people with limited time or sensible boundaries.
Braden
My identical twin. Same face, different operating system. He plans. I improvise. He judges my improvising.
Asher
Red hair, grunge wardrobe, loyal underneath all the visible regret. Usually the first person to realise my idea is terrible.
Persephone
My best friend and study buddy. She owns more highlighters than some stationery shops and sees through every excuse I make.
Jess
Sharp-eyed, direct and usually watching the room like she's already found the structural weakness.
Benji
A human announcement system. Knows everyone, hears everything and considers silence a medical emergency.
Hamish
Comment-section energy with shoes. I would elaborate, but he might take that as encouragement.
The Trilogy
Dink: Diary of a Wairoa Boy
I left Wairoa for Auckland with a place at university, a room in a hall, and the firm belief that moving away would turn me into a completely new person. It did not. It turns out your brain comes with you.
Book One is me trying to survive first year while pretending I am not overwhelmed by the city, the coursework, the hall, my identical twin living nearby, and the alarming number of attractive people Auckland has placed directly in my path. I am trying to work out where I belong, who I can trust, and whether confidence is something you develop or simply perform until nobody asks questions.
There are friendships I did not expect, family tensions I absolutely expected, basketball, bad decisions, worse timing and several moments where keeping my mouth shut would have improved everybody's day. I do not keep my mouth shut.
This is the diary of a Wairoa boy attempting to become an Auckland student without losing the parts of himself that got him there. Results may vary. Mine certainly did.
Dink: Diary of a Reluctant Target
By Book Two, I know where the library is, I have actual friends, and I can cross campus without checking a map every thirty seconds. Naturally, this is when life decides I have become too comfortable.
Something is wrong. It starts small enough to dismiss, which is how the worst things usually start. A strange moment. A feeling of being watched. Pieces of my private life ending up where they should not. The more I try to explain it, the more I sound like somebody who should drink water and have a lie-down.
This diary is less about arriving and more about what happens when a place you finally trusted stops feeling safe. I am trying to hold on to university, my relationships and my own version of events while fear keeps rearranging the furniture in my head. The jokes are still here. They have simply taken on heavier employment.
I would love to tell you I handle everything calmly, logically and with mature communication. That would make this a much shorter book and also fiction in a different genre.
Dink: Diary of a Reticent Loudmouth
By Book Three, I have people. Proper people. The kind who know what I am like and keep answering my messages anyway. I have a boyfriend, close friends and something resembling a future. This should be the calm book.
It is not the calm book.
Campus has become louder. Everybody has a cause, a microphone or a very confident opinion about who belongs, who gets heard and who gets to define everybody else. I understand more than I did when I first arrived, but that mainly means I can recognise trouble earlier while still walking towards it.
This diary is about voice. Mine, other people's, and the difference between speaking for yourself and becoming useful to somebody who speaks louder. It is about being Māori and Pākehā, being seen and misread, wanting to belong without handing over the right to decide who you are.
I am still sarcastic. Still defensive. Still capable of turning one awkward conversation into a week-long emergency. But I am no longer the boy who arrived from Wairoa thinking survival meant handling everything alone. Whether that makes me wiser or merely better staffed is open to debate.