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To qualify as a road trip, the minimum requirements are: a drive time longer than 45 minutes, a drink of some kind (preferably not alcoholic, but you can keep a secret, right?), snacks the FDA does not recommend as actual food, cigarettes, a map whether from AAA or drawn on a soggy napkin (they will both be completely useless as they actually work more like lucky charms), and an automobile of some kind. Once you leave your starting point, be prepared to gradually say goodbye to your sanity. Don't forget to stop at a bathroom on the way out of the town or city, your bladder has not been exercised yet and cannot be expected to manage what a seasoned traveler can. The first hour or so, you'll be full of excitement of getting to your destination, coupled with the knowledge that you haven't even put a dent in the miles. The first fast food/gas break is great, and makes you feel "wee, vacation!" even if it's the same food/gas chains you use at home. The rest stops always make you feel odd and alien, whether it's just the temperature, the mannerisms and speech of people walking around, or even the architecture of the rest stop. The Arizona officials want you to think you're in your own museum while using the necessary facilities. New Mexico on the other hands provides a fun filled potty break that speaks to your inner child with their Desert Family Robinson buildings built off the ground so you won't get to speak to the friendly locals—the snakes. Further on the trip you will find yourself drawn into the most inane conversations with other people in the car to waste time, such as considering if tortillas really came from Greece (if the shape fits…), what to do in the case of a zombie hitchhiker, and singing songs that consist of Disney and children's favorites that everyone knows. At least the chorus. Of course, the fun voyage becomes a minor power struggle at a point:

"Do you want me to drive?"
"No, I'm good, thanks."
"You sure? Cuz I could drive."
"No really, I can do it."
"It's been a long time. Wanna switch places at the next gas stop?"
"No, I'm driving!"
"But I wanna drive!"
"Fine, you can drive then!"
"Nevermind, I don't want to drive."

You can pretty much take it from there. Then there's also the good old fun of catching up/slowing down to drive parallel to cute drivers of the opposite sex. And pretending to ditch your road trip passengers and drivers at rest stops, while hiding the car like stealthy ninjas behind a road sign. Then there are the maps that were previously mentioned. Maps are simple... unless you don't know if you have all ready missed the exit or not. They don't make those things easy to fold back, especially when you've got some KFC on your lap at the same time. Stopping at a large chain store is always an adventure, even though it's practically identical to the ones back home, "Look! The pet section is OVER HERE! This Walmart is crazy!" Although drinking alcohol while the other person is driving sounds fun, you never have the guts to risk it. You speed at an excess of 30 miles over the limit when you have to go to the little driver's room. The scenery is breathtaking, and you really finish up a pack (or a carton) of cigarettes in no time, because you want an excuse to keep the windows open to see, despite what it does to your mileage. And your eardrums.

Speaking of mileage, and thus gasoline, there's a topic that is usually never given much of a second thought, unless of course, you have none. Which is definitely a problem. A major one if you're about 50 miles away from the nearest city. Doubly so if it's nighttime. And you get a triple word score if you haven't seen any cars in either direction for about an hour all ready. Didn't realize that the I-25 merely goes past Santa Fe so you only had a limited chance to get there and have now lost it? You get the Olympic Gold of Road Trip Hell medal if you finally do happen to find a solitary gas station in the middle of nowhere, but there's no one there, and the machines only run on credit cards. Silly you, you only have cash. Once you do reach a gas station in civilization, pat yourself on the back, have a smoke (at least 50 feet from the gas pumps, please), and enjoy the realization that you're only about halfway done just getting to your destination. At least you didn't run out of gas on the I-10 in Arizona, needing to stop at the Desert Center gas station halfway between cities which charges at least 50 cents more than where you should have filled up. Oh you did have to stop there? Well, at least you can join the club of other furious drivers filling up around you.

Eternity seems short compared to how long this drive is taking. Perhaps you should drive at about 10 miles over the limit? Ah heck with it, you might as well go 20 more. No one will notice. Except that Highway Patrolman, who's flashing his lights at you. Pull over, hands on the steering wheel, do not litter that cigarette butt right in front of him, that's what the ashtray is for. "Yes officer, I know why you pulled me over; I was speeding like a Christian Fundamentalist out of San Francisco." No, better not say that, he's not so cute when you try to be funny. Better to use what you can get away with, since the luggage rack is threatening to collapse downwards into the vehicle at this unexpected stop. "We're on a road trip sir, and I REALLY need to pee." As old as the Oregon Trail, but it still is a valid excuse. Works better if you cry. Boys, this means you too. So, either you get a ticket or you don't. Regardless, please continue on your drive, but at a moderate speed. Until he's out of sight, of course.

Three-fourths of the way there? This time your sanity, which has been lost inch by inch, takes a statistical nosedive. Similar to your credit rating a month after you get your first credit card. Abandon all hope, ye who drive here. Who ate my chips? Wasn't me. Hey, who put that piece of gum in my soda? Not me. Who farted? Don't know what you're talking about. Who sat on the cigs? Nope, not—oh wait, guess that one WAS me. There's a mathematical formula that says X times Y is equal to Z. This applies when X is the sanity level for the car occupants, Y stands for the number of occupants, and Z is equal to the number of sheriffs that will be needed to hunt down any survivors of the impending massacre (the formula is inversed when there is only one person; the reason being that they went crazy about 150 miles ago all on their own, as you can only talk to yourself for so long before you wish you would die). Never plan a road trip so that this portion of the drive is at night. Aliens behind the clouds, spooky silhouettes holding butcher knives alongside the road, freaky houses with lights that go out before you can turn your head to take a good look, and dead bodies in garbage bags are the least of your hallucinatory problems. No matter what, driving at night in this manner is a lose-lose situation. If there is still one driver who can stay awake, they will be alone, victims of their overactive imaginations while everybody else sleeps. If the driver and all passengers need coffee to stay awake, then everybody is shouting nonsense while they twitch uncontrollably. The latter, despite how it seems, is probably not the worst-case scenario because when daylight hits you realize that you either drove at over 200 MPH, or went through a wormhole in the space-time continuum. However, reaching the three-fourths mark in daytime is not really as bad. You just try counting all the fence posts you pass, clean your nails until they bleed, try smoking a cigarette through your nose, and several other asinine entertainments that really don't do much but remind you it's only been two minutes since you last looked at the clock.

Finally though, you're almost there. So very close. One hour left to your destination. Need gas? Nah, it'll suffice. Have to go to the restroom? You can hold it. Starving? Eat those chips that fell on the floor. So the tire blew, big hairy deal. The rim's made out of metal, it'll be fine. But whatever you do, do NOT stop. If you do, you will never get to your destination. It's a superstition that hitchhikers have been applying to their lives for decades upon decades. Just think of hitchhikers as rats on the Titanic, or chickens trying to get into a tree during an earthquake. No one knows how they know, but they just do, and it would behoove you to follow their ways. No one ever won the race by going pee ten feet away from the finish line.

So after all the madness, you have at long last arrived! Unfortunately, the fun is not yet over. Driving through a strange city in search of a hotel is still something on your to do list. You think, "Well, the cheapest hotels usually aren't along the highway", so you start driving around at random, ending up in east LA when you got off the freeway at Inglewood. But finally, you make it to a cheap hotel. So what if the door to your room looks like it was bashed in with a police ram during a drug bust? Or those cockroaches in a major hurry to vacate the room. The excitement is over. Or so you think. Even though you're grimy from travel, have a mysterious stain on your pant leg (even though you only drank water for fear of making a soda spill), and can't see straight...you go out, try to find something to do. Because all the stuff you wanted to do out here is all ready closed. But hey, that's a Walgreens right over there, let's see if the sunflower seeds are in the nuts or the popcorn area like back home. And stock up on cigs. Wait, $50 a carton? Never mind, perhaps it would be best to shop around a bit. Sounds like another road trip, and without a map to take the fun out of getting lost in a foreign city.

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