It’s been three days since you have been home with your family. You’re in the car, trying to decide where to get dinner and all hell breaks loose. Suddenly, you don’t even recognize yourself. You are a whining, angsty 13-year-old again with severe attitude problems. Your brother is mocking your voice like he’s 12, when really he’s the older sibling; your mother tries to break up the fight with a flailing hand from the passenger seat. Welcome home from college. When you are at school, living in communal living hell, you fantasize about the cinnamon candles that are burned and home-cooked meals that come with going home for a few days. But while you were living away from these people, you forgot all the annoyances that came along with the love of family that are dulled down by day-to-day exposure. Now, the fact that your father decides to wash the car every time you’re about to leave and that your room has been turned into a storage facility makes you miss your twin bed and mini fridge. You look in the fridge, expecting to find feasts of mashed potatoes and casseroles. Instead, there sits a bag of lettuce and half a jug of orange juice. “Isn’t it great?” your mother asks. “We barely spend any money on groceries now that you kids are out of the house!” “I’m allergic to orange juice,” you mutter angrily as you leave the kitchen discouraged. Now, you have regressed back to the angry high-schooler that once lived in your house. You think about going out for drinks, then you realize that you no longer are able to trek around on foot in your suburban town. You need a designated driver. Drinkless, foodless, you resort to your greatest comforts of being home: your pets. This column is not meant to be taken as actual advice, but rather as social commentary. The Cynic does not advise you to do or not do any of the activities mentioned above.