I’ll try to keep this short because the real story unfolded over a few weeks. Basically, a close friend of mine posted something on Facebook about needing someone to pick her up, and I’d recently been without a car for a few months (in the garage) so I knew how she felt. Also, I’m gentlemanly as fuck, so I decided to help her out. I didn’t get too many details about what had transpired, I didn’t want to pry, but what I got from the gist was her room mate had come home from a night drinking and attacked her; so she obviously didn’t feel safe and wanted out, and she wanted out fast. With no concern for neatness or packing, and no boxes or anything, like that she just grabbed black bin bags and frantically whipped the drawers from the chests and shoved everything into black bags and then into the back of my car, just everything and anything she could get hands on, and she left the rest to come back to. Anyway, I drove her home, she took all of her stuff in, thanked me and said something along the lines of “I might have dropped a few things so if you find some make up or some clothes in the back of your car you can keep them.” We laughed; I drove home. About three weeks later I’m driving the girl I’m dating home and she starts playing with my leg as I drive, giving me the come on. She eventually tells me to pull over and drags me into the back seat. Afterwards, we’re fumbling around the dark looking for our clothes, namely underwear, and she grabs a black and pink lacy thong when she’s more of a “girl boxer” type of lady, she holds them up and gives me a look like “Explain these, fast.” I tell her the story, and I get given that look like “I know you’re lying” and I’m sat there thinking, when the fuck did my life turn into a really badly written sitcom trope?