Though, to be fair, that's when the house stopped smelling weird.
Post-college looks at the wreckage and piles people into groups based on what they're doing. I was living at home, so my pickings were getting slimmer and slimmer. The place I was an intern at was filled with older people who had actual jobs and spouses and children, so they had no desire to join a desperate me for drinks after 5. I had remained friends with a scant few that I'd known in high school, but most of them had left for other parts of the state and country, and I hung out with them only when they visited town and felt enough sympathy to yell my name three times into the cave.
In a few of these friendships, I turned into an elephant in the room, with a sign over my head that read "Was Once Promising." It was a weird feeling brought on both by my friends' newfound senses of freedom and success and by my own insecurities. I felt that I now had to prove myself against former buddies whose lives had officially "started." It instilled a bitterness in me that took a while to shake off. Living with your parents, in common culture, is a scarlet letter that is shaped like your mom's face with the time that you're recommended to come home by stamped under it.
Topped off with the ever-present blanket of disappointment.
Making friends when you live at home after college is like doing inventory at a store that's just been looted. Sometimes, there are surprising finds, and I strengthened a few bonds with people who also were stuck trying to decide the right direction for their lives that didn't include sleeping in their childhood bed. But, mostly, unless you're working at a job or have hobbies that include more people than you, you won't find a lot of acquaintances that you can form actual, non-computer relationships with. It would have been far easier, though, if for a bit I hadn't convinced myself that you have more inherent worth as a person when you live on your own.