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  If your hands aren't busy elsewhere, e-mail Cass with your horror stories at cc_cass@yahoo.com.

Once upon a time in a land far, far away (read: just last year in Encinitas, Calif.) there was a very tight group of high school friends. And I don’t mean hang-out-at-lunch tight. I mean the go-for-midnight-swims, play-hide-and-go-seek-on-the-roof-of-the-school, and have-a-dance-party-in-the-back-of-a-pickup-truck kind of tight. This group was about as entertaining as they come.

On Thanksgiving, I returned home only to find that the high school marvel I left two months ago was no longer the easy, happy-go-lucky crew it had once been. Instead, it had become a happy-to-get-lucky-easy group infested with long distance romances.

The line separating couples’ private time from group time was transparent, at best. Gratuitous kissing, caressing and fondling were as common in taco shops as they were in the bedroom. Updates on college life were surrendered in one-word answers or incomplete phrases when couples were forced to come up for air.

I spent most of my spare time trying to decide whether Wes’n’tracy or Tracy’n’wes was the most phonetically pleasing. I finally decided that it didn’t matter since neither would be able to answer with a mouthful of tongue.

The disgusting verbal displays of affection outlasted even the longest public make-out sessions. I can’t tell you how sick I am of the phrase “No, I love you more!” I’ve never heard so much romantic babbling in my life. Romeo would be rolling in his grave if he heard some of the lines that my friends spewed at each other. By the time winter break rolls around, I’ll need to find a good pair of earplugs or a new group of friends, because my eardrums and my stomach just can’t take any more of this abuse.

And everyone was so damn tired all the time. What happened to the adventures we used to have? Where had all our energy gone? At first I thought the strains of college or long trips home were slowing us down. Then, I realized that if people hadn’t been up all night wearing themselves out, along with that poor old mattress, we could have had some real fun.

By the time I got away from my friends and to the Thanksgiving feast I came home for, I couldn’t find my appetite anywhere. I looked all over the place. I checked the turkey, cranberry sauce, the stuffing and even the pumpkin pie before deciding it wasn’t in the kitchen. I searched under the bed, in the closet, behind the couch, and on top of spaghetti, but it was nowhere to be found.

It turns out the search was futile from the start, because I wasn’t even sure whether it had gotten stuck between a pair of my lovesick friends or if I had just lost it when they gagged me with a spoon.

By now, I know you’re probably thinking that I just have an exceptionally horny group of friends. And you might be right. But don’t pretend that the same type of thing doesn’t go on in your own circle, too. Incestuous groups, whether high school friends, dormitory floors or entire apartment buildings, are all over the place. If pheromone dependency were considered a problem, the addiction levels would be through the roof. In fact, somebody better start a 12-step program for these people before it’s too late.

I’m not asking anyone for a vow of celibacy. I’ve got a girlfriend, too. A long-distance one, at that. But there’s really not any need to put on a show for our friends just to show how much we care. I’m happy for all the happy couples and all, but get a room already!