Pitching a tent is like goat milk. Raw goat milk. Either you like it or you don’t. There’s no middle ground with raw goat milk or tents. I will gladly sit in some city park and look at a random bush with poisonous berries—but stick me high up in the mountains in a tiny green tent and I’ll call for a helicopter airlift to the nearest roadside diner bathroom.
I tried camping twice (yes, I know, they say the third time’s a charm) and both times the damn tent ruined the experience. Something about hooking up all those metal tubes and getting the tension just right in the nylon tent fabric left me wanting to strangle a raccoon.
I just wanted to sit under the starry sky, toast vegan marshmallows and sing Katy Perry songs. But no, I had to get that damn tent pitched. It’s worse than hitting a home run in a baseball game.
I respect people who like to hike, look at random rocks and watch water do nothing but fall. But I can’t understand wanting to sleep in a tiny plastic tubular hole.
If I were to go camping again, I’d do a day hike and then hotfoot it back to my hotel room with the microwave and free WIFI.
I like real houses, real roofs and four walls between me and life. I don’t want to be wrapped up like a bright green candy bar on some random mountain with nothing but nylon between me and some big hungry bear.
That’s just stupid. I’m not stupid, just mildly dumb.
Thank you for reading, sharing & enjoying.
Your support is greatly appreciated!
☕️ TIP JAR ☕️
Comments
Post a Comment