Curling up in the trunk of a broken down car is not my idea of fun.
On a scale of one to ten, I'm pretty sure we're deep in the negatives. Times two. Squared. Or something.
Wait. If we multiply negative numbers—okay. Scratch that. Math isn't my strong suit. Whatever. The point is, I'm so damn far down the negative rabbit hole I've devolved into dreaming of twisting Andrew's head until it pops off and flies away like a deflating balloon, complete with all the spitty-farty sounds and background laugh tracks.
I fucking hate laugh tracks.
Anyway.
The point is, obviously, it wasn't my idea to get into this damn hole of darkness.
And if I want to be fair—which I don't—it isn't exactly Andrew's fault, either. Precisely. Kind of.
In fact, I'm not entirely certain how it happened.
