The Bride vs. GoGo.
This is an extremely exaggerated metaphor for my constant struggle with this job.
Enjoying the unwavering and innovative use of violence by the genius Quentin Tarantino. If only I could spar with real blood, and not with sarcasm.
This isn’t about guests. As much as I’d like to tell you about the man who argued with me over the cost of the health club (if we’d offer complimentary access, we’d surely save money on the furniture broken by overweight fuck fests!), this about the hospitality field.
I’m convinced, after almost a year at this hotel, that to survive a person must have some severe mental illness. No need for $40,000 on a degree in sociology. I’m certain that I missed the fine print while applying: Must have the ability to check identity upon arrival.
Only a real masochist could endure this type of mental slavery.
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