We all know that picking up hitchhikers is a risky proposition; actually hitchhiking is even more risky. You run the risk of getting picked up by a mentally diseased serial rapist who will drug you, tie you spread-eagled to the bumper of their truck, and shove half-empty cans of Pepsi up your unlubricated asshole until your anal cavity cannot possibly hold one more can, at which point they will drag you into the woods, peel your face off with a screwdriver, and leave you to bleed out in the middle of the wilderness while they drive to their destination while wearing your face as a mask.
Luckily forum member AtmosFEAR didn't let these possibilities hold him back when he hitchhiked from New Jersey to...well, I'll let you find out where he ended up.
PLEASE NOTE THAT I DID NOT WRITE THIS STORY MYSELF. I DID NOT HITCHHIKE. IF YOU E-MAIL ME ASKING ME FOR HITCHHIKING TIPS OR FOR MORE DETAILS TO MY STORY, I WILL BE UNABLE TO PROVIDE THEM, AS THIS STORY DID NOT HAPPEN TO ME, WHICH IS WHY I USED SOMEONE ELSE'S NAME IN THE INTRODUCTION. IF YOU E-MAIL ME TO TALK ABOUT HIS STORY, YOUR COMMENTS WILL DISAPPEAR INTO A VOID. I AM SORRY. PLEASE STOP E-MAILING ME ASKING ME TO TEACH YOU HOW TO HITCHHIKE; I DO NOT HAVE ANY INSTRUCTIONS FOR YOU. THANK YOU.
P.S. - SOME GUY NAMED JAMES SAYS YOU SHOULD TAKE PLIERS WITH YOU, SO GO WITH THAT. THAT'S ALL I'VE GOT. THANKS, JAMES.
I hate New Jersey. I don't hate it for the landfills. I don't hate it for the accents. I don't hate it for the hoards of people too busy identifying themselves as members of other states to actually embrace where they live. I hate New Jersey because all anyone does here is sit around and talk about how there's nothing to do. I was presented with this realization one month ago today.
I've felt this way before and usually something comes up at work or school gets a little bit more busy, I get distracted and I tend to forget. It wasn't coming this time though. I kept hearing about how great things were in other places and I was tired of missing out. I get 2 weeks of vacation from work every year and with that, I was going to find out what I'd been missing. The only problem now was a location and cashflow. I'm damn near penny-less and so are the majority of my friends. That meant that I needed to find something free that could still potentially be a good time. This is how Hitchhiking: The Game came about.
I grabbed my friend Bryan, the only other person I know who would take part in something like this and told him of my plans.
Here are the rules. You're allowed one backpack. You can fill this backpack with absolutely anything you want with the exception of money/credit cards/gift cards/pocket change/etc., keeping in mind you will most likely end up sleeping on the streets and bathing in public bathrooms.
My bag contained:
-3 pair black pants
-2 button-up shirts
-10 pair socks
-1 travel sized toothpaste/toothbrush
-1 travel sized deodorant
-3 disposable shaving razors
-1 bar soap
-2 travel sized shampoo bottles (I knew Bryan would forget)
-2 Sharpie Markers
-1 bottle of Febreeze
-2 bottles of water
His bag contained similar things and a lot more food.
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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