I’m eating cold fries out of a soggy paper bag in Houston. The airport terminal is covered in plastic tarps and dust and the AC is on blast. I sit here in an under construction but still open for business food court along with my shame and a psychedelic comedown. I have had one whole flight from Nicaragua to America to think about what I have done and yet I still have no answers. The driver came at 4am this morning and I said goodbye to my husband I just met. We spent the previous day on a catamaran in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with about twelve other previous strangers who had became the best of friends. We call them camp friends. The ones you meet at that camp you reluctantly go to as a kid and then never want to leave. They are the kids that feel different than the ones as school. You feel bonded by the camp experience, like no one else would understand what you’ve been through..only your camp friends.
My camp friends, my husband and I stay up all night long. We lay out on the rooftop of the hotel gazing at shooting stars when a storm rolls through. We get soaking wet but we don’t move. We lay in a cuddle puddle laughing until we cry as the warm rain falls upon us. I think, this is the best moment of my life. Six and a half years later I can still confidently confirm that it probably was. Hours prior on the boat, I stumbled below deck to grab sunscreen where I came across two camp friends placing cinnamon Altoids on their tongues. “Want one?” they ask. “Sure,” I say. As I place it in my mouth one camp friend says, “By the way, it’s acid.”
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