Hello. My name is Adam Tod Brown, and I'm new here. Well, not technically new, I've
Sometimes, a person just needs a quiet place to sit and reflect. If that person is living in a s****y motel room like I am right now, rest assured, their "place to go" options are sparse. Usually, it just means getting out of bed and walking to the other side of the room. What you see in the above photo is what you'll find on the other side of my s****y motel room. Isn't it just quaintest? I must admit, I've never actually sat here and I plan on burning that computer bag and the earwigs almost certainly infesting it the second I'm gone. But still, in a dive like this, it's a nice effort. And as you can clearly see, those industrial strength plaid curtains are unique in their ability to keep the room completely dark whether they are open or closed. That's craftsmanship you could only find in the 1940s when those curtains were made. Also, heads up, rapists. I think the locks on the window are just for show.
No, your eyes do not deceive you. That's an old school (as in heavy as s**t) television haphazardly placed on top of a sloped cabinet that I think is supposed to only be used for storing dead hookers until nightfall (they don't keep too well after that). How this struck anyone as a decent idea is something I will never understand. How this television has never struck someone on the head is also a mystery. I mean, it is technically attached to the wall, but only because there's (most likely pirated) cable running to it.
Do you know why those power outlets look surprised? It's because they can't believe anyone actually paid money for them. In a plot twist I've yet to experience in my entire life, every single outlet in this room is too large for anything resembling a traditional power cord. It's like I'm in Europe or something. Every single one. All of them. Too big. No matter what device you plug in, the cord just kind of dangles precariously for a second before falling pointlessly to the floor, still yearning for precious electricity.
Just taking this photo produced enough force to knock this out of the wall moments later.
Don't get the wrong idea here. I don't call this my "pet hair" because I have pets here in the room with me. That would imply that there was a shred of happiness to be found in this disaster of a dwelling. There is not. Rather, I call it my "pet hair" because, like a loyal dog unwilling to leave its owner's side during times of turmoil, this hair has been in this room with me the entire time I've been here. It's stuck to the bathroom door frame and has heroically survived repeated visits from "housekeeping." In my current state of emotional vulnerability, I like to imagine that housekeeping tries to remove it each morning when I briefly step out to panhandle for cigarette money, but their efforts are thwarted solely through this rogue hair's ceaseless dedication to seeing me through this storm. And then I cry. Weeks from now, I'm sure I'll realize that this hair cares nothing for me and is only here because of housekeeping's equally ceaseless dedication to not wiping away the thick patina of filth that's been holding it in place since sometime around 2003. But right now, that hair is my only friend, and I love it dearly.
Check out more from Adam in Sex Over the Phone: An Analysis and 7 Hilariously Failed Attempts at Politically Correct Toys.
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