Let me paint you a picture of this glorious palace of despair I called a hotel. The bathroom was a avant-garde masterpiece, featuring a booger wall collage that would make Picasso weep—clearly a guestbook for rogue nostrils. The light fixture? A shrine to a dearly departed roach, preserved like a museum relic. Daylight flirted shamelessly under the front door, which was less a barrier and more a whimsical suggestion of security, perfect for a midnight squirrel rave. The floor boasted a dead bug, adding that extra crunch to the "rustic" charm. But, oh, the shower? A FABULOUS revelation! No water restrictions, just a soul-cleansing power wash that could strip paint off a Buick. I emerged reborn, practically glowing, though I’m still picking booger confetti out of my nightmares. Book this gem if you love a side of chaos with your spiritual rinse!