So now that you’ve gotten through the holidays, and hopefully entered into the New Year with a bang (hey, you deserve it!), it’s back to reality. And for some of us, thankfully, the lives we would much rather live.

Sure, we all had some sort of reputation in high school, but luckily that persona only lasted for four years. But maybe I didn’t quite read the footnotes on that contract, because, shit, those questionably constructed alter egos are frozen in everyone’s minds for every break that we find ourselves back at home.

“I changed! I changed!” Bullshit. You think you have, but trust me, when given the appropriate environment, you will instantly fall right back into being the town bicycle (because everyone gets a ride), the idiot, the nerdy one, whatever it is, it’s still there. You can proclaim to be a “woman connoisseur” until the next lunar eclipse, but you’re still the same manwhore that went around flicking people’s bras since middle school. Usually I don’t go home, and after spending three weeks there, I realized why.

There’s nothing like walking into a bar (otherwise known as an unwanted high school reunion) and immediately being asked to give at least three CBJ’s (that would be a celebratory blow job). The last time I checked it was the 12 days of Christmas, not the 12 days of blowies, but hey, we all have our own interpretation of the holiday spirit.

Or having a random-ass kid you haven’t seen since the early ’90s approach you completely blacked out and instantly assume that you haven’t changed from your fifth-grade self. Mid-shot someone just threw out, “Wow! I thought that you were still practicing abstinence!” The last time we spoke, I was 10, but wishful thinking, kid.

I would much rather have all of these people safely hidden away on Facebook where they belong, because there are very few things that I appreciate in 3-D. Titanic is probably both the beginning and the ending of that list. (Leo, you’re my homeboy.) So the walking yearbook that my town turned into was no fucking tea party. Actually, if I ever signed any yearbooks at all, I think the extent of it was “HAGS.” Going for the “just-DGAF-enough-to-be-legendary” approach, I guess. Well, okay, I apologize, but high school isn’t really anyone’s prime. And if it was, I’m sorry. Personally, I wouldn’t say I was an alcoholic. I’d say that I was getting a head start. My most notably sloppy behavior happened roughly five or six years ago, and now I finally got my revenge as I watched all the self-proclaimed frat stars and sowhorities get shitfaced off apple pie shots and debatable cranberry vodkas that tasted suspiciously like a Shirley Temple. So many sloppy truths, so little time.

Speaking of sloppy truths, seeing people face to face I found out real quick who sharpened their Photoshop skills since college began. Oh, so you did gain 20 pounds and still look like a horse. Got it. According to your amateur modeling pictures you post every minute on the minute, I was beginning to think there was going to be some new competition at the bar. Guess not.

Other than gallivanting around openly tweeting each other (@ms_e_brooks) and passing around Facebook prof pics of the highlights of who you fucked so far in college, I quite enjoyed making inappropriate Christmas puns to the people I never liked in high school. “Fancy seeing you here! Oh it is the most wonderful time of the year!” Until I realized Justin Bieber has a Christmas album out and I was inadvertently quoting him.

But who are we kidding? Rekindling the old flames is where all the fun really lies. Because let’s face it, no one gives a shit any more. And there’s that whole convenience thing. No more stupid one-liners just to get the girl in your room, like, “Hey wanna see the fish in my room?” People love looking at fish when they’re drunk. It’s a proven fact. Mostly though, you can say whatever the fuck you want because you know exactly when you’ll be leaving. It’s a deadline kind of relationship. I dig it.

Just think of all the possibilities to be incredibly blunt and obnoxious. As he’s coming throw out a “Whew. Let. It. Snow. You tiger, you.” Or instead of gracefully sneaking out and making your exit, or allowing the bangee to abruptly leave, why not battle who gets to leave first? Throw out a real quick, “Listen, bang and bolt is MY job, don’t steal my thunder, bitch.” What’s fair is fair, and you both know you’re still gonna fuck again tomorrow.

Going back home gives you the opportunity to redeem blue-balling that kid in high school, or finally getting with that high school sensation (even though he/she probably sucks now … but whatever, moral victory). And when you go to the local bar where everyone knows your name (and all of your dumb mistakes) whether you like it or not, just take comfort in the fact that nothing ever changes.