She had always felt different from her brother. It wasn’t because she was adopted — they had been her family for as long as she could remember — but she was just different. One day, when she received an invitation to visit the new toy factory, she and her brother found out how unusual she really was.

The owners of the toy factory acted like they knew her. When they revealed themselves to be white-bodied aliens wearing people suits, she tried in vain to escape. Finally she came to realize, to remember what she had always known somewhere inside her. She, too, was a white-bodied alien. They had returned for her.

At 20 years of age, I was by far the oldest girl in a skeevy bar in Boston. I had maturity, an Ivy League education, a reliable source of income and a leopard print dress on my side. And with a witty pick up line like, “Do you guys feel like you’re swimming in jail bait here?” the boy had no chance. He had to drop digits. And, after three months of uncharacteristic and surprisingly successful game, I had only suffered a few morning-after face-plants and unprovoked sweat-fests, and had redeemed myself with surprise tickets to a Red Sox game. Yes, I was smoother than John Legend in silk drawers, and I had the boy on lock.

My alarm was set to play the 69 Boys’ masterpiece “Tootsee Roll” at 7 a.m. My breakfast consisted of three bowls of Wheaties and a warm-up lap around the house. My Walkman already held my own Lifetime Original Movie soundtrack: Jock Jams Volume 1. And my yellow Smile Jesus Loves You lunch box contained a Powerbar, an All Sport and a note from Mom that read, “Either come home with a victory, or don’t bother coming home.”

It was Olympic Day, and utter domination was in the air.

“Be careful not to trip over your boobs. Seriously, save Frederick’s for when the lights are off.”

I probably deserved it. I had aimed for Jenna Jameson and landed somewhere on Dolly Parton. I’d broken the cardinal rule of Tig-O-Bittie-dom: never, ever wear a borrowed shirt in public, especially if said lender plasters her Donlon walls with posters of Mariah, Paris and of course, her own Bon Ton quality glamour shots. But I had been convinced by a hoard of floormates (whose chests resembled poorly replaced divots) to liberate my sand dunes of glory.

It was the eve of the year 2005. While most of my less-fortunate fellow high school seniors were huddled together, chugging pee-colored beverages in freezing garages of sin, giggling over who was going to “do work” at midnight with whom, I was relaxing with a tall glass of Welch’s best in my Grandfather’s plush 65+ community. My mom had decided to surprise my 90-year-old grandfather in his home on New Years, so we hopped a flight to Old People, Fl., fully prepared to get crunk.

Deckhead:

Awkward Turtle

Body:

It happens to the best of us, and by the best of us, I mean me.

One minute, you’re quietly writing a paper in your dorm room in Donlon. The next, you are parading the halls with 37 pages of freshly printed haikus and taping them to the front of every door, next to a collage of you, your roommate and downloaded pictures of plus-size porn. One minute, you’re getting dressed for practice, the next, you’re unrecognizable in a head-to-toe black Under Armor suit, roundhouse kicking petrified freshmen, and responding only when referred to as “The North Campus Ninja.”

Deckhead:

Awkward Turtle

Body:

She was the only other female in my brother’s posse of yuppie post-grads. To her, this meant we were immediately close-talking, arm-linking, hair-touching best friends. To me, this meant if we experienced the apocalypse, and only my brother’s third floor condo in South Boston survived, I could push the whole “repopulating the earth” responsibility off to someone else. She came complete with a conversationally slutty boyfriend; you know, the stud who can wink with both eyes, who hugs you long before you’re comfortable with pressing your lady humps against him and who has the uncanny ability to turn everything from Capri Sun to Charlotte’s Web into a sexual innuendo. He’s the guy who, even under the watchful eye of his girlfriend, rivals God Himself in ability to knock up girls solely through dialogue.

Deckhead:

Awkward Turtle

Body:

While many of you were getting down with your bad selves, best friends and a slew of nameless hard-bodied randoms in a place where the illegality of outdoor nudity is forsaken for the greater good of TV ratings, I was getting my Uno on with my silent, but deadly Uncle Fran. He is the mute old-school-game champion; this man could win millions at The Price is Right simply by pointing to Bob Barker and nodding knowingly.

Deckhead:

Awkward Turtle

Body:

My life has been a downward spiral of record-breaking growth spurts and allergic reactions, extra credit English assignments and Fiddler on the Roof performances, Girls Scout Camps and that whole bratwurst lawsuit.

The truth is, I’m not, nor will I ever be, one of them. You’ve seen them: They stand alone, lost in thought in front of an obscure work of Dadaism at the Johnson, listening to Bright Eyes, Jay Z and Billie Holiday on their Product (Red) limited edition iPods.

This column appears in the 2007 edition of The Sun's annual Freshman Issue.

During my childhood, I was lucky enough to watch one of the most beautiful relationships unfold before my eyes. It filled me with such hope that perhaps I, too, could find love in kindergarten with the boy next door: a true love that would last through the trials of puberty and eventually lead to a wonderful marriage. I spent many silent dinners with my parents in awe of the tried-and-true relationship before me. Every day, I thank God and basic cable for introducing me and my generation to the unflinching devotion of history’s most passionate lovers: Corey and Topanga.