lool at his face

and what are you going to do
about my boyfriend’s pimple?
he hasn’t had a zit like that
on his face in twenty years — 
he spends one night on
your filthy-ass sheets
and now he’s got
a damn pimple the size
of Rhode Island on his cheek!
so what are you gonna do about that, huh?
we spend so much money on this damn
place, and we’ve been coming here
for years, and fucking Taylor Swift,
and my mom and my grandpa
and my freakin’ little brothers
all spent less money
than me on their rooms,
which were totally nice
and had just as great a view of the beach,
and, like, what do I get?
I mean, our room wasn’t even as good
as theirs, I feel like, and there
was some kind of gross food on the
ground near the bed, like peppermints
covered in saliva, or I don’t know — 
my boyfriend said it looked
like old stale apple jacks, maybe…
and oh my god the ice bucket — 
there was like a cup of yellow
rancid lemonade or some shit,
I mean for all I know it could
have been a literal cup of piss — 
was it piss? huh? did one of your guests
piss in a plastic disposable cup
and leave it in the ice bucket
inside our closet, huh??
yes, we’d like to talk to the manager — 
oh, and there were like bugs everywhere,
like all kinds of flying insects — and this
slow meandering fly that just wouldn’t quit — 
it didn’t even leave the room
when I opened the patio door!
and come on, just-like, mosquitos
everywhere, and Taylor Swift,
and come to think of it, the freakin’
thing on my boyfriend’s face — 
it could be like a giant bug bite,
you know, maybe one of your big ass hotel bugs
bit him hard on the cheek, and it’s like
not even a zit at all!
but like some kind of epic bug bite…
I used like half my concealer
on him trying to cover it up so he wouldn’t
seem like a freak and go to dinner looking
like the toxic avenger — 
you think they’re gonna serve him
50 dollar spaghetti bolognese with
a zit like that on his face??
huh?
I mean what are you gonna do for us?
can we get a free night, a discount? Taylor Swift?
some kind of reimbursement of fees
or something!?
come on…
look at his face


Notes:

This is one of those poems that seems highly exaggerated and ridiculous, but actually almost all of it is true.

It’s about a trip I took with my girlfriend and her family last year. It was actually a really nice trip overall—I had a great time. And Rhode Island was beautiful. But the focal point of this particular piece has to do with the minor annoyances we encountered in the little beach hotel we stayed in, and how all these little minor things can kind of build up in a short period of time and cause you to want to complain to the front desk staff even though you’re not usually one to complain.

I know, I’ve worked in service jobs, so I’m so not the kind of person who gives any customer service people a hard time. The same is true for my girlfriend. We’re just not like that at all. But for this one instance, we couldn’t help ourselves. The sheets were kinda gross, there were apple jacks under the bed, little bugs flying all over the place, and yes, we found some yellow liquid in the ice bucket…

To top it off I got the biggest fucking pimple on my face—I mean, seriously, I hadn’t experienced a pimple this big since I was in high school. And there were no pimple patches in sight, and it was just awful-looking. I felt so self-conscious the whole time, going to dinner in fancy restaurants with like the most pathetic-looking concealer caked on to my epic zit.

I wanted to blame the hotel so bad for the pimple. Like, look, your disgusting room caused this abomination to sprout out of my handsome face. I was even in denial for about two days, claiming it wasn’t a pimple and that it was actually some kind of exotic bug bite. Anyway, it only fueled the front desk Karen show even more.

But yeah, deep down, I knew it was a pimple…

And the thing about this part of Rhode Island is that it’s where Taylor Swift has her vacation mansion. And you see girls all over the place running around with Taylor Swift shirts on. It’s Taylor this and Taylor that. And there’s pictures of her in every store and restaurant. It’s a little bizarre. But, yeah, that’s why there’s an absurd number of Taylor Swift mentions in this poem.

The spaghetti bolognese was pretty good, though, if I do recall correctly—so at least there’s that.

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