This is a story about how my husband (then mutual friend turned boyfriend) and I found ourselves in the middle of nowhere, renting a car, and fucking in a motel room. TLDR! Story’s over! Jk. Okay, here it goes:
I had just recovered from a fatally scarring relationship with an ex-girlfriend and found myself in a Winnebago with a couple of strangers. My friend promised, “C’mon, it’ll be fun. We’ll go camping, get stoned out of our minds, and possibly you get to shoot a slenderman.” Of course, it was a promise – a promise where my friend flaked out at the last second – and I was stuck in a van with mushrooms in my backpack and we were driving to fucking OREGON!
In the first few hours of our drive, I happened to get stuck with this guy (husband) who’s babbling about making waffles and jet propulsion. I, apparently, liked his babbling because he was hilarious and shared his chips and soda with me. I also found out that we had a lot of shit in common. One of them was: we wanted to get out of here. On the next stop, we had opted to rent a car to take us back. And while we were waiting for our reservation the next day we opted to stay at a two-bed motel room and found ourselves having dinner at a diner.