Your home friends: They're the ones who knew you before you thought doming was a sport. Blitz is alien to them, they think large fires surrounded by teeming hordes signify something akin to the occult and, for these special some-ones, pong means Beirut. How quaint.
These innocents knew you back before you dyed your hair pink, started playing Frisbee, threw tennis balls at Tigers or learned to 'schmob -- back when you foolishly thought that spandex was inappropriate attire for anything other than a swift jog and that Uggs would eventually go out of style.
The truth is, despite the irritatingly potent nostalgia associated with these cliques, your ties to high school homies are really nothing more than an illusion. Infinitely appealing in their simplicity, yet largely questionable in their legitimacy, these broskies frometh whence you haileth are as bad for you as huffing glue in the parking lot during first period. Although, given that you go here, you probably weren't the one actually doing it, but rather that kid who used to watch awkwardly.
Huffing aside, stop lying to yourself. They weren't that great then. They aren't that great now. You only hang out with them for two reasons: you feel like you should and you don't want to be stuck at home watching "Dancing with the Stars" with your mom on New Year's Eve. You might also be slightly delusional and think that you actually still like them. Point taken, but hear me out anyway.
First of all, we go to Dartmouth. Given that the majority of this campus is maniacally involved extracurricularly and simultaneously plots either world domination or salvation on a daily basis, I suspect that real friends from home are few and far between. Don't worry about it, your secret's safe with me.
Maybe you actually did pretend to socialize from time to time, but honestly, the more likely scenario is that the haze of a few years and too many beers have made you believe that you actually were on the Homecoming Court. You weren't.
Perhaps a trip home, and the subsequent journey down memory lane, offers a second chance, a new frontier, a glorious opportunity and a blaze of glory. Whatever. What I mean is, it offers the seductive prospect of proving that you really can do a quick-six and that your life is basically analogous to the ABC Family drama "Greek." It's really not.
Between the ACTs, SATs, the three varsity sports, that good work with Amnesty International, Debate Team Nationals, volunteering at your local Children's Hospital and classical piano recitals, honestly, who had the time? Oh and there was also that tireless quest to nurse wounded strays back to health, a theme upon which you gloriously elaborated in your poignant college essay. It's okay. No one's judging you.
Maybe I'm totally off-base here, and you really did have it all, including friends, in high school. Maybe you're the kid who had that one dude who really understood you, Superbad-style. I know, playing Halo just isn't as fun alone. Or maybe you rolled with a posse -- even better. Whether you were part of the geek squad or a member of the jock-cheerleader paradigm, I understand, there's something alarmingly appealing about possessing a long list of known associates.
But seriously. You gave up Curve cologne, bad highlights, your belly button ring, "the OC," drinking your parents' liquor, making out in parking lots and your legendary status as that guy who ate the most free buffalo wings at Mr. Mike's Pizza when you graduated, why not this too?
These same people probably also have some incriminating photographic evidence of you mooning something, which, aside from being asinine, is not so good for your future presidential campaign. Why continue the association? Just a thought.
There's a reason why Dartmouth students seek each other out on off-terms, in airports, as alumni or even when visiting foreign countries. It's the same reason why a lot of Dartmouth people freakishly tend to marry other Dartmouth people. It's because we're a seriously odd batch.
We used to be nerdy, but now we're just kind of quirky. We pretend we don't ever go to class and proselytize that studying is a bore; yet, during most weeknights, Third Floor Berry is an actual scene. We are obsessed with a restaurant entirely because of its bread, we hate to miss the gym, we think that a liquid blanket provides sufficient warmth on a snowy night and we all own a black North Face jacket.
To be honest, the real world is a little bit easier if Dartmouth people accompany you. Dartmouth colleagues don't look at you strangely when you finish your supposedly classy drink before everyone else in the room. Dartmouth bosses accept without question your absolute need to journey to Hanover for a few days in the Fall, Winter and Spring -- what's more, they'll probably join you for Green Key anyway.
Stop living the lie. Let the old acquaintances be forgot. And throw out your cargo pants. Seriously. They weren't even in style then.
