Obligatory “this didn’t happen today,” but I still wake up sweating when I remember it.
So last year, I (26F) was doing a cross-country solo road trip. I had just broken up with my long-term girlfriend, quit a job I hated, and decided I needed to find myself or whatever. Cue dramatic playlist, sunset photos, and crying in drive-thrus. I was somewhere in the middle of New Mexico, low on sleep, high on emotional instability, and absolutely starving.
Then I saw it.
A dusty gas station with one flickering neon sign that just said “FOOD.” I went in, and there it was: a glowing, spinning, slightly-sus food warmer with a single microwaved burrito inside, like the Holy Grail for poor decisions. It was labeled “Beefy Volcano Surprise.” I laughed. I bought it. I ate it in the car with my hands because I couldn’t find a fork.
By the time I reached Arizona, I knew something was wrong.
I wasn’t just full, I was spiritually haunted. My stomach felt like it was hosting a WWE match between Satan and bad life choices. I pulled into a campsite, thinking fresh air and nature might calm the demonic forces churning inside me. Instead, around 2AM, I shot up in my sleeping bag, drenched in sweat and in a state of emergency.
Now let me be clear: I was in a tent. Alone. Middle of nowhere. No bathrooms. Just me, a roll of half-used toilet paper, and a decision to make.
TL;DR: Trusted a cursed gas station burrito in the middle of nowhere, unleashed a gastrointestinal apocalypse under the stars, became one with the wilderness, and lived to tell the tale.
Comments
Pure poetry