-eng- Camp With Mom And My Annoying Friend Who ... -

A sarcastic teen stuck at summer camp with their overbearing mom and their loud, hyperactive best friend discovers that “annoying” might just be the key to surviving the wilderness—and their own fears.

Let’s rewind. Two weeks ago, your mom walked into your room with that look. You know the look. It is the "I have a fun idea that you will hate" look.

Mom: "Honey, I think we need to unplug. Let’s go camping! Just the two of us." You: "Great. Just us. Women. Trees. Peace." Mom, picking up her phone: "Oh, I also invited Jessica (or insert annoying friend’s name here). Her mom said she needs to touch grass."

And just like that, your quiet escape turns into a three-ring circus. The annoying friend isn't just annoying at school. In the wilderness, their annoying traits are amplified by a factor of ten, because there are no walls to hide behind and no other friends to dilute the energy.

You arrive at the campsite. It is beautiful. A lake shimmers in the distance. The pines smell like Christmas. For ten seconds, you feel peace.

Then, the tent bag comes out.

It started as a beautiful idea. My mom, an avid birdwatcher and amateur botanist, won a weekend camping package at Starvation Lake (ironic name, in retrospect). She decided to make it a “girls’ trip.” Just her, me, and my best friend since kindergarten, Chloe.

Except, Chloe isn't just my best friend. Chloe is my annoying best friend. -ENG- Camp With Mom and My Annoying Friend Who ...

Don’t get me wrong. In the city, Chloe’s quirks are manageable. Her loud laugh? Endearing in a movie theater. Her obsessive need to organize everything? Helpful during study sessions. Her complete inability to read a room? Funny over pizza.

But when you take a city girl and drop her into the woods with no Wi-Fi and a heavy dose of mosquitoes, those quirks become weapons of mass annoyance.

In any normal scenario, fire is simple: wood + match = heat. Not here.

Your mom insists on using a fire starter block that expired in 1998. Alex insists they are a "pyro expert" because they once lit a candle. You just want a hot dog.

The sequence of events:

You end up eating cold hot dog wieners straight from the packet. Your mom calls it "an authentic survival experience." You call it Tuesday.

This is where "Camp With Mom and My Annoying Friend" transforms into a horror movie. A sarcastic teen stuck at summer camp with

At 10 PM, your mom falls asleep instantly. She does not snore. She saw logs. It is a low, rumbling noise like a truck stuck in mud.

At 10:15 PM, Alex starts whispering.

Alex: "Are you awake? I think I heard a raccoon." You: "Go to sleep." Alex: "What if it’s not a raccoon? What if it’s a skinwalker? I watched a video. Do you think this land is sacred? We should apologize to the trees." You: "Go. To. Sleep." Alex: "I have to pee. Will you come with me? I’m scared of the dark. Also, your mom snores. Should we wake her up to check if she’s breathing?"

You do not sleep. You lie on your inflatable mattress—which Alex accidentally deflated while trying to "fluff it"—and stare at the tent ceiling, fantasizing about your own bedroom, your weighted blanket, and the sweet silence of solitude.

By breakfast, I was done. D-O-N-E.

I wanted a classic camping moment: making pancakes on a cast iron skillet, listening to the birds, sipping instant coffee with my mom.

Instead, Chloe had a meltdown because there was no oat milk. She poured maple syrup into her black coffee and grimaced like she was drinking poison. Let’s rewind

Then, she looked at my mom and said the words that will echo in infamy:

Chloe: "Mrs. Davis, no offense, but your generation really romanticizes suffering. Like, why can't we just go to a Holiday Inn Express and call this 'glamping'?"

My mom smiled. It was the kind of smile that says, I am going to survive you out of sheer spite.

I finally snapped. "Chloe, you have complained about the trees being 'too vertical.' You tried to iron your shorts with a hair straightener powered by the car battery. You are ruining this trip for me and my mom."

Silence. Even the birds stopped chirping.

Your mom pulls out the tent poles. "I don't need the instructions," she says, sweating. "I did this in Girl Scouts during the Carter administration."