I don't have super high expectations of motel stays in small towns - I've learned that aiming low generally seems to be a decent way to approach most of life's slightly sketchy situations. You're much less likely to be disappointed (or disgusted) and much more likely to be thrilled about things that others with higher expectations of the world might have erroneously come to view as standard, like a working mini-fridge, say, or pillows that don't smell like they've been deep fried.
to think of it, lowered expectations may well be one of the key reasons I’m
such a happy person. A more particular individual would have to write a
scathing online review instead of a cheery blog, plus pay a lot more money for
a better room somewhere else. Maybe somewhere they don’t fry their pillows.
some things fall short of even my low bar. For instance, there is nothing quite
like checking into a small-town motel at the end of a long day, only to
discover popcorn and “hairs” IN the bed. I didn’t even know what my low bar
was, exactly, until that moment of discovery, but it was immediately clear to
me that IN the bed happens to be precisely where I
draw the line.
second thought after discovering my low bar setting was, “Aw, that guy must
have been lonely.”
moment of clarity: apparently I feel like I can divine a lot about someone by
the motel room debris they have left behind. Just imagine what the folks who
actually clean (or in this case, “clean”) the rooms must know about their
moment: I solemnly resolve to be more aware of the forensic judgement
opportunities I present to cleaning staff.
I were to leave behind motel bed fillings for some other plucky traveler
to find, what would really speak to my motel experience, in the way Mr.
Prolly Jerking Off While Watching a Shitty Movie’s popcorn and pubes seemingly
spoke to his? I’ve given this some serious consideration the past few days, and
I propose that my motel story would best be told with Triscuit crumbs and
dessicated plant fragments: Ms. Late Night Botany Session.