It’s midterm time so Bwog is continuing one of our favorite types of series: archetypes, specifically College Walk Archetypes. We all recognize certain people/groups of people as we sprint from Ferris to Havemeyer in the morning. Mind you, our idea of “College Walk” is really anything from Butler to Low, so be prepared for some real nut jobs interesting individuals. First up, we have the beloved and naive ‘High School Tour Groups’ as narrated by a reminiscent Tatini Mal-Sarkar.

It’s a pleasantly brisk day and you’re comfortably strolling to class, and for once you’ve actually left a semi-decent margin for a leisurely ramble instead of the usual manic power walk/strut. It’s starting to get nice outside again. This morning you even got an iced latte instead of the regular black coffee. Something about this weather just makes you go crazy.

But all of a sudden, a horde of Hunter-wearing, “casual” blazer-adorned young’uns descend into your path, much like a swarm of determined, go-getter, type-A insects, or Odysseus’s man falling into Circe’s way. There are pamphlets (fancy) and, it seems, embossed folders. What fresh hell is this? Very, very young B-schoolers? B-schoolers and their children? PrezBo’s family?

Then it strikes you: prospies! The high school tour groups have arrived. Just as the realization hits you, one of them pipes up, “OMG, so like thirteen AP’s should be fine, right? My friend Johnny was telling me that Sarah told him that according to Rebecca, as long as you’re doing about seven clubs and two sports (varsity level, obviously), you’ll be fine. Is that actually, like, a thing?”

You, interested and at this point already late for intro psych, perk up your ears. The tour guide, disgruntled and either hungover, exhausted, or merely confused, tries to rally. “Uh… I… um… now to your left, you’ll see Lerner, the big glass building that’s totally convenient and not even slightly bizarrely constructed and slippery in winter.” He’s got a way with words, this one. You’ll have to ask him for life advice if you ever run into him again.

Satisfying answer given, the poor guy probably thinks he’s done for the day, but just like Miley, the group can’t be tamed.

“What did you say your SAT score was?” a well-highlighted, pearl-adorned, Lululemon-wearing WASP mother asks. Her kid cringes but is too busy taking selfies with Dodge to actually do anything. Wait. Is that Axe you smell? Good god. The kid’s genuinely not even in high school yet. He looks nine. This can’t be happening.

The tour guide opens his mouth, but much to his chagrin nothing comes out. He gapes for a couple moments, chokes out a terrified “2390,” and turns around to avoid the inevitable looks of disappointment and murmurs of “dammit honey, we got a dud.”

Though ordinarily you’d love to stick around and watch this disaster unfold, today you have to go. You shake your head and try to skitter around the three-inch margin the group’s left on the walkway. Some people. You don’t know what’s wrong with these kids. It’s not like you were ever like that.