I finally got to see my favorite band in March. My fiancé and I drove three hours to do so. We left home late and had to go straight to the concert. We called the hotel to let them know we’d be there after the concert. The receptionist said no problem, even though the website said reservations wouldn’t be held after a certain time. I pointed that out and asked if she needed my information to pass on so I wouldn’t have trouble later. She assured me it would be no trouble. 

Lo and behold! When we arrived, there were “no rooms.” After waiting thirty exhausting minutes in the lobby and watching an obvious hookup walk through the lobby a few times, the front desk manager found us a room. We trudged around to the elevator, which was stained, dimly lit, and damaged. 

We found the room pretty easily. I wish we hadn’t. 

•   The door was loose on its hinges and had obvious fire damage on the inside.
•   There was a vacuum just inside the room, propped up on the wall next to the bathroom.
•   The cord was torn and the dumb thing couldn’t stay upright on its own. We put it in the hall.
•   The tub in the bathroom was stained. The dryer was hanging off the wall and was obviously not functional.
•   The carpet in the room was cigarette burned, as was the duvet on the bed.
•   The bolts holding the TV down were loose and scraped. The nightstand was broken — badly.
•   The brightest lighting was barely more than a streetlamp. 
•   The air conditioning unit was broken.
•   There were dirt and dust everywhere. 

We did not stay for more than five minutes, and the only reason we stayed as long as we did was so I could charge my cell phone, which had been taking pictures all night, naturally. 

We asked the desk to refund our money and were told the manager would have to handle it in the morning. 

Of course, we left immediately.

According to my mom, I was, for the most part, a well-behaved child. The issue was that when I misbehaved, she had no idea how to effectively punish me. Sitting me in a chair in a corner didn’t work because I had ADHD so I’d always be squirming, rocking, bouncing, fidgeting, etc., to the point that it was painful for her just watching. Sending me to my room also didn’t work because I’m an immersive daydreamer, so I would just run around my bedroom playing out daydream scenarios regardless of whether I had toys or anything else. On that note, trying to confiscate my Beanie Babies didn’t really have much impact, either.

She brought this up to a therapist I was seeing at the time, who suggested finding out my favorite things and taking those away. So she asked me for my five favorite things, which I happily rattled off. She then told me if I misbehaved, she would take Item 1 away, then Item 2, and so on. My response?

“No, Mom, you don’t get it. Those are my favorite things; you don’t want to take them away,” I said, and then I went back to casually jabbering about my favorite things and totally failing to understand her attempts to explain that was the point of the punishment.

I am very relieved on her behalf that I was a well-behaved child so she didn’t have to discipline me often. Otherwise, I do not know how my parents would have maintained their sanity.

I work on delivering packages for a major online store. They have recently started scheduling delivering as early as 8:00 am, so this means I’m up around 2:30 am to be ready for the early-morning delivery blocks. I am on the way when I realize I should put more gas in the car and grab some liquid caffeine at the same time, so I pull into a local gas station to tank up.

When I get there, I notice a rather thin man walking around in a thin coat — which is understandable, as it can get quite cold at night here, even in the desert. What I do not expect is that he is wearing sandals… and a red, ankle-length dress. I am a little unnerved, but he doesn’t make any violent moves toward me as I get out of my car and doesn’t even seem to notice me. I think, “Live and let live,” and head in to get a drink and some fuel.

As I’m paying, I mention the guy to the cashier, because he should probably know the guy’s around for safety reasons. When I describe him, he says, “Yeah… he used to be a cashier at one of our other stores.”

Already thinking this night might be a little too surreal, I ask, “Used to be?”

The cashier responds, “Yeah. He got fired when he spilled a soft-serve cone on the floor and then began licking it up. He hangs around a few of the stores sometimes.”

When I step outside, the man is gone, leaving no trace behind. I pump my gas, looking around me multiple times, but he does not reappear.

I still think about him. Shine on, you crazy, dress-wearing, ice-cream-off-the-floor-licking diamond.

I’m working on the shop floor of a supermarket, and one of my main jobs is handling delinquents — basically any item that’s been handed in as unwanted at the tills or left in the wrong place in the store.

Anyone who has worked in a supermarket will know how draining this is: people will leave things in the most ridiculous places. I’m in the frozen aisle looking out for any refrigerated items — so much milk and bread ends up in the freezers — when I spot a brown and black bag.

It’s a chicken, specifically, one of the hot, cooked chickens that we have for sale at the front of the store. Someone decided to buy a hot chicken, got almost to the other side of the store, and changed their mind, and then they decided the best place to put it was the freezer?

Granted, discarded hot chickens have to be wasted no matter where we find them, but we also had to waste the frozen item next to it because it was noticeably warm. The chicken remained the most amusing misplaced item until I left, only possibly matched by the half-drunk [Fast Food Place] coffee also found in the freezer.

The company I work for has two directors: the owner and his long-term business partner. The owner is an engaging and entertaining personality; the other director, whilst being tremendously efficient at his job, is very likely the most intensely boring person I’ve ever encountered in my life, to the point that the staff have developed the nickname “Funsponge Squareface” for him.

I was recently talking to the owner about something unrelated and he referenced that the other director actually used to be a house DJ for several years before he moved onto the path that led him to his current role. I was amazed and asked if he went by the name “MC health and safety” to which the owner replied, “Yes, he used to raise the roof, but only once all the correct permits had been filed,” and that when the roof was “on fire,” he had the club evacuate.