When I got the job, I initially imagined I would be some Nathaniel West, forming a nocturnal bohemian collective that theorized over art, music and life amidst copious bottles of liquor. After only a few months on the job though, I was assured of the reality of my lot. There were no bohemians, only businessmen. Though I still tried to see myself as shepherding families of pilgrims toward vacation meccas, mortality often seemed less an end than a goal. There were only Girls Gone Wild infomercials. That was it.
The shift I really remember, it had been a really hectic shift. The night went as it always did, but the morning came and everything went to some new circle of hell with which I had previously not been acquainted. Everything at the hotel was malfunctioning—water, computer, fish tank. The morning shift manager was agitated, so I pretended to be working hard to avoid his wrath.  After I completed my tasks, I awaited the shift change. I could taste freedom fifteen minutes away. John the housekeeper shuffled to the front desk, excited. A guest had left a bottle of bourbon in a room for him. “I’m going to have this with some steak and potatoes!” John blurted giddily.  “I’m going to kill myself;” I thought. “He’s beautiful.”
With five minutes to go, an irate guest brought me a detailed comment card, filled front and back with the meticulous indignation that only a total asshole can articulate.  He was one of the bad apples. Most guests were disgustingly cute little families who loved each other very much. This guest was angry; the sink was too low and the shower drain was slow.  I stared blankly at him and assured him that hotel staff would respond immediately to the deficiencies in the room and would he care for a coupon good for twenty-five percent off his next visit?  The guest was not placated.  He bombarded me with extensive explanations of every complaint he had listed in his comment card essay.  I didn’t leave the hotel until fifteen minutes after the computer had taken me off the clock. 
I ambled to the car with slumped shoulders, contemplating the psychology of the comment card.  Life, even a shitty one like my own, was too precious and short, so I thought, to waste a moment of it on a comment card.  I wondered what sort of people chose to fill out comment cards. Were they altruists who desired nothing more than to help hotels and fast food restaurants improve? Did they actually think these establishments give a shit about their complaints? Were they bored and lonely, reaching out through the only avenue available? I knew not but that I wouldn’t walk among them.  I started the car, went home, and filled out a college application.