Well, I thought it was funny at least.

I was in college at the University of Idaho, and I owned a 1972 Dodge Coronet station wagon. If you've never seen one of these things, they are about as long as a football field. You can fold down all of the seats except for the front seat and basically have a full bed behind the driver's seat. As a photographer, I stuck foam rubber back there along with a sleeping bag and a bunch of other stuff, and used to go into the mountains by myself on the weekends to shoot pictures. It was much preferable to freezing in a tent.

So one day in my photography class, this girl and I are getting along pretty well, and I asked her if she wants to go out that weekend for pizza and beer. She accepts, and is very chatty, smiley, touchy. I think that this is going to be something good.

I pick her up on Saturday night, and she is her usual bubbly self, smiling and laughing. About halfway to the pizza place, she suddenly clams up and start staring at the floor. She answers my questions with one-word answers, and absolutely does not engage me through dinner. After dinner, she tells me that she doesn't feel well and wants to go home. As we approached her dormitory, she literally flies out of the car and goes inside.

I'm completely confused, and I'm trying to think about what I might have done on the way home. At a stoplight, there are headlights behind me and I annoyingly look into my rearview mirror to find out what's going on. It's then that I noticed that I basically have a motel room, fully made up, right behind the driver's seat.

No second date there.