Kerouac was Mistaken

flickr: christennyson2008

Though I know better, it seems more often than not I find myself in a dingy hotel room somewhere away from my family engrossed in a gave endeavor. I think a lot of this comes from leaving my family behind on two deployments and many many months at sea.

For now I write from a hotel near Sea-Tac where the mulleted smokers gather outside their rooms. They prop their doors with overturned garbage cans, their faces rife with scowl. While it’s not the worst place I’ve stayed in, it’s far from the best. Then again I’ve been to quite a few third world countries so I don’t know if that means much. Still I do have WiFi access, why should I complain. I don’t mind the planes overhead as they are drowned out by room’s air conditioner that tends to make the smells go away. There is a stain on the ceiling. Whether pizza or blood… wait there’s a plane… doesn’t matter. It matches the stain near the door that I can only assume is vomit. Nineteen more weeks of this for four days at a time. Perhaps next week I’ll venture from edge of Kent into Des Moines. Maybe in my stay I will have visited nearly every section of these parts. So while I set my alarm clock, cell phone, and computer to wake me up before five I wonder, “Are those hookers out there or is that just how kids dress these days?”


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