Homecoming, a night of over-anticipated thrills let down by the fact that you are spending way too much money on an outfit you’ll only wear once. But hey, you got the flowers, you got the date, and your parents’ manual 330 horsepower Audi S5. Too bad Dad is driving.

Nevertheless, you get to her house and knock on the door. Sweat begins to exude from your armpits and face; you glisten under the door light. The clomping of four-inch stilettos reaches your ears; your date opens the door. The cute, awkward “Wow, you look amazing,” comes out. The only response you’ll receive is her gagging, thanks to the over-intoxicating odor of the cologne you doused yourself in earlier.

Time for the dance — you’re about to get down on the dance floor in a four-layer tuxedo, but your date’s B.F.F. arrives to take her away to the bathroom. 30 minutes later, after the only slow song, she finally reappears. You feel it’s time to leave; but your date wants to stay. While she is dancing in the circle, you’re orbiting the crowd. The thought to jump in or not renders you as indecisive as a pile of snow on Christmas morning. You proceed to the circle, the crowd-shouting, music-blazing, adrenaline-pumping, sweat-bursting, energy-boosting aura, perfectly combined to drop the 360 jump-spin pin drop. But you fall into a group of girls, and face plant your oh-so-precious face into the comfortably polished cement floor. Helpless Homecoming Kid, you’re one of us.