A Rorscharch Couch
From an airport hotel in Canada. I see my mom…Freud…my mom….a train…my mom.
From an airport hotel in Canada. I see my mom…Freud…my mom….a train…my mom.
But apparently noses do. Run, that is. From an “inn” hotel in Wichita where the guest asks, “Snot or Not?”
From a traveler in EXTREME northern Minnesota who couldn’t decide whether this was blood, barbecue sauce or urine from a seriously dehydrated guest.
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“One night in a famed bungalow, a home away from home for countless screenwriters and directors and movie stars, all for a special birthday night, with stained carpeting, non functional light switches and a heated toilet seat that makes your ass sweat.”
At a Hampton Inn. It seems like a perfect storm of dirt, grime, dust and ectoplasm.
At a tap house restaurant. Fortunately the turkey bacon club arrived already cut.
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