Last week was the day that Yoko and I agreed that we would go to Rosetta Stone and not leave or come back until the morning. At the usual bus stop after work, I was standing and eating Pretz, which are nothing like pretzels and pronounced “Pritz”, like “spritz” with something gone wrong. It was eight-thirty-to-nine-oh-eight, as the bus takes that long to arrive, and I was standing next to a man from whom I sensed an aura of either malice or some other non-normal thing. It turned out, after an unusually eloquent and outgoing greeting, that he was just a foreigner. “Malaysia,” he said.

We talked until we got off the bus and neared the train, station, at which we parted ways since he was headed for Nagoya. Little did he know that I would be going there as well shortly after.

Well, Yoko and I did go to Nagoya and we did go to the Rosetta Stone and we did stay until there was no train left to board, but I let something, likely the drinks, get the best of me, and before I knew it I was a woozyman wanting a bed. She graciously agreed to leave the bar contrary to original plans and seek out a hotel, which I graciously agreed to pay for. Naturally the only seemingly affordable hotel still open at the hour was a love hotel, which if you haven’t heard, is where you go if you want to sleep in a bed that hundreds upon hundreds of people have had secretive, seedy sex in. There were spider webs with spider eggs in them greeting us at the backdoor, which is the only kind of door these places have. The only room left vacant was the expensive one, meaning that everyone had gone for the cheap rooms. If you’re going to go out of your way to have seedy sex, might as well make it real seedy.

I used to dream of going to the love hotels. This was supposedly a nice one, meaning that the vermin were confined to the stairwell. The room itself was nice-looking, and had a variety of lights, several of which were very, very erotic. A mirrored ball would’ve done wonders for the place. There were regular mirrors everywhere else, and a big bed which, though clean, in my mind was plagued with a tawdry, tawdry history hovering around it. Tired and woozy as I was, I couldn’t stop trying to calculate how many times sex had likely been had on that mattress, and how many different types of sex, at that. The doors were thick and padded, to muffle the sounds coming from inside, which, in our case, were limited to lines like “What the hell are we doing here?” and “Hey, did the wall just move?” The place even had an N64, for those people who are turned on by jagged, ’90s renders of Mario beating up on Kirby.

Well, we got our six hours of sleep, woke up, and paid through a slot in the door. Nowhere else in the world are the sticks this far up people’s asses. You pay through a slot in the otherwise airtight, soundproof door. Everybody here tries to act like they never take a shit.