I imagine that in hell, you don’t burn. You stay at this Motel 6. I genuinely debated sleeping in my car instead, and in hindsight, that would’ve been the luxury option. The only redeeming quality was the bed, which somehow managed to be acceptable despite the surrounding apocalypse. The moment you open the door, you’re punched in the face by the unmistakable stench of stale cigarette smoke, like the room has been chain-smoking since the Clinton administration. Then your eyes adjust… and the nightmare begins. The fire detector? Not installed. Not broken. Just sitting on the nightstand, unplugged, with exposed wires, as if it gave up on life halfway through its job. The walls looked like they had witnessed a struggle. Not normal wear and tear—more like an exorcism was performed and the demon won. Scratches, marks, and scars that tell stories no one wants to hear. The shower deserves its own paragraph of trauma. I don’t know how to explain this properly, but it genuinely felt like taking a shower would make you dirtier. The floor was stained beyond recognition, like cleanliness had been outlawed. You don’t step into the shower—you enter a biohazard. And the floor? Calling it a floor is generous. It’s ceramic tile that appears to have been laid down with hopes, prayers, and absolutely no adhesive. Every step feels like a gamble. At 4:00 AM, just when you think you’ve survived the night, a violent domestic dispute erupts, loud enough to make you question whether the walls
I imagine that in hell, you don’t burn. You stay at this Motel 6. I genuinely debated sleeping in my car instead, and in hindsight, that would’ve been the luxury option. The only redeeming quality was the bed, which somehow managed to be acceptable despite the surrounding apocalypse. The moment you open the door, you’re punched in the face by the unmistakable stench of stale cigarette smoke, like the room has been chain-smoking since the Clinton administration. Then your eyes adjust… and the nightmare begins. The fire detector? Not installed. Not broken. Just sitting on the nightstand, unplugged, with exposed wires, as if it gave up on life halfway through its job. The walls looked like they had witnessed a struggle. Not normal wear and tear—more like an exorcism was performed and the demon won. Scratches, marks, and scars that tell stories no one wants to hear. The shower deserves its own paragraph of trauma. I don’t know how to explain this properly, but it genuinely felt like taking a shower would make you dirtier. The floor was stained beyond recognition, like cleanliness had been outlawed. You don’t step into the shower—you enter a biohazard. And the floor? Calling it a floor is generous. It’s ceramic tile that appears to have been laid down with hopes, prayers, and absolutely no adhesive. Every step feels like a gamble. At 4:00 AM, just when you think you’ve survived the night, a violent domestic dispute erupts, loud enough to make you question whether the walls
