Ruths Room
Some asshole had tried to explain to me, back in April, that the single-room in Waterford was “the size of a postage stamp.” What a lying little bitch. “Oh my god,” Stacy had squealed, “I hear there isn’t even, like, a real bed in there, it’s just, like, a mattress thrown on the floor.” “REALLY?!” I had exclaimed, genuinely excited. I had always enjoyed visions of debauched Thoreaueanism. Keeping things simple and skanky. That mattress could get awfully dirty, then. Good way to bring a princess...