I love that I can say either I’m borrowing a bedroll from a CSI novelist to go camping in the middle of a five-star desert dreamscape with an award winning photographer and a star-shiveringly good musician or that I’m borrowing a floppy foamy bed-thing out of Don’s garage so I can go camping in the middle of an ecological disaster with one of the most filthy minded friends I have and a wee skinny girl I don’t know as well as I should, and both statements are equally accurate and entirely true.

That said, I’m oddly terrified about my upcoming trip, and I sincerely do not know why.

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