Ah, Days Inn. Where every amenity is a gamble and the only consistent thing is regret. I recently had the misfortune of spending one night at this particular location—if you can call it that—and I’ve genuinely had better nights sleeping in a car during a thunderstorm.
Let’s begin with the front door. Or rather, the lack of a room number on it. Finding my room felt like a bad escape room challenge designed by someone who hates people. After trying a few doors like a burglar on a quest for self-harm, I eventually landed on the right one—only to discover the key didn’t work. Not once, but twice. I got to enjoy two scenic round trips to the front desk while carrying my bags and my will to live.
When I finally did get inside, I was immediately greeted by the aroma of sadness and mildew. The carpets looked like they’d hosted a frat party for swamp creatures. Stained, sticky, and the color of old soup—nothing screams “luxury” like mystery fluids in high-traffic areas.
Then came the bathroom, where any optimism I had left went to die. Two out of three lightbulbs were missing, casting just enough dim light to make you wonder what diseases you might be contracting. The sink and shower were actively growing new life forms, and the water pressure was more of a light spit. Honestly, I’ve seen cleaner setups in horror movies.
But wait—there’s more! The room hadn’t even been fully cleaned. Trash from the previous guest was still lounging around like it had paid for a second night. Empty