Sprung a Leak

My hotel bathroom leaks. Not the drip, drip, drip kind of leak. The “why are my socks wet?” kind of leak. I should have asked for a new room but this is my last night and I brought extra socks. In hindsight, I should have known. The potholes surrounded by cones in the parking lot were a clue. The buffet waitress who upon discovering the scrambled eggs were running low simply screamed “we need more huevos por favor!” was another. The workout room at the end of a long dark hallway, bench press cord snapped and curled like a pig’s tail was yet another. Unfortunately once I put all the clues together, it was too late. I’m not going to name the hotel but I will say that it rhymes with chest best fern. In the long litany of hotel horrors I have experienced this isn’t the worst. Rooms without windows, lizard (and ladybug) infestations, and hidden porn caches are just a few of the indignities I’ve suffered at the hands of the hospitality industry. A leaky bathroom just doesn’t seem that bad in the grand scheme of things. I wish I had brought a pair of flip-flops but I’ll survive. I’d go on but I have to change the towels on the bathroom floor.