Dartmouth clearly has the most emo motto of all the schools in the Ivy League (add some mournful melodies and black nail polish to "A Voice Crying Out In The Wilderness" and you've got a half-decent Bright Eyes song), which is probably because Eleazar Wheelock was Hanover's first official case of Seasonal Affective Disorder. Weirdly enough, spending an extended amount of time in a desolate Starbucks-less wasteland while constantly enduring seven metric tons of snow raining down on your head can have a wee bit of a negative effect on one's psyche. If you ignore the travel advice of my esteemed colleagues and refuse to get the hell out of Hanover, you'll need to develop some serious coping mechanisms to survive. Sadly, based on personal experience, extensive and dispassionate analysis of my fellow classmates, the standard reaction is to revert to primitive status, turn your room into a protective cave and hide. Given our inherently skewed perception of normal behavior on this campus (I hear that in the real world it's actually NOT okay to black out four nights a week), I thought it might be helpful to explicitly point out some of these more worrisome behaviors.
Signs that you may have inadvertently started hibernating:1.You've developed a rapport with the EBAs delivery dude. Repeated encounters with Hanover's late-night delivery finest generally indicate that you've met your expected rage quotient for the weekend, but things start to get iffy if you're actually in control of all your faculties when you answer the door several days in a row during a standard dinner hour. If your awkward small talk starts to carry over from day to day, this is a warning sign. When you're on a first name basis and have seen pictures of his kids, you need to bite the bullet and walk to Food Court. Note: in severe cases of hibernation, the EBAs guy may actually attempt to intervene or otherwise help you out. Caitlin Boucher '10 and I once received some "really good" energy tablets along with our Tuscany bread, which we took as a response to an unvoiced cry for help. (Yes, I still have them. Neither of us has been that desperate. Yet.)
2.The garbage from your repeated food deliveries has climbed up and out of the can and is now an intricate balancing act involving support from at least one wall. I know that ORL likes to challenge itself by seeing how it can make the trash bins painfully far from every single room on the hall, but if your structure has collapsed and been rebuilt more than twice, you may need to reassess your hibernation habits. (Memo to EBAs: the Styrofoam containers are unsustainable and also really hard to balance. Look into that.)
3.You've tracked the noises of the mice that live in the walls, captured one and named it Steve. I know this is heartbreaking, but Steve is not actually talking back to you. Those are the voices in your head. Your relationship is built on a lie.
4.The dirty laundry piles in your room have transcended "creative dcor" and have moved straight into "oh my God I think it might be sentient." SLAY THE BEAST. EXIT YOUR ROOM. DO LAUNDRY.
5.You've built a nest involving multiple Snuggies and a beanbag. I have long championed the Snuggie over the scoffs of vicious detractors (haters are jealous of my fleeciness) but if you spend too much time in one, it will sop all your brain function and you'll also accumulate a dangerous amount of static charge. Resist.
If you recognize two or more of these signs in yourself or in a close friend, don't waste time. Blitz me at "FarleyFace" and I'll come over with a pack of Red Bull to have a sustained, caffeine-driven freak out right there in your room. Guaranteed to drive the most stubborn hibernator out in fifteen minutes flat. It's because I care.
