try the patience of any hotel maid.

Since I was small, when my mother used to wake me up by lifting the blankets and tickling my feet, as much because she knew I hated it and would jump out of bed as anything, I cannot sleep with the blankets tucked in under the mattress. Oh, I’ve tried, but it’s just not me. I have to have the blankets tucked under my actual feet, and better if they’re thick blankets too. So I completely disembowel the bed as I get in and wrap myself up like an eggbeater going through a loose box of tissue paper.

A hotel room, when I’m done with it, is not a pretty sight nor smell.

And I no longer smoke. Partner and I once spent a week together in a hotel in the Dearborn area so we could hang around the museum and village, and to this day, I swear they probably drywalled over the door and pretend the room never existed. Between gyros and pizza farts and partner’s and my two plus pack a day habit, the room was uninhabitable. And at the time, it was not unusual for me to have four or five before my feet touched the ground in the AM. Hellish things that did to a hotel, I have to say.

Now, I just infuse the pillowtop mattress with stealth farts, that lurk in place till the next guest rolls over on that spot so it is squeezed out of the foam and assaults his nose. I sleep better thinking of the suffering of that next bastard.