Bathroom Diatribe

     Dirt cheap motels are costly in aggravation.
     A clerk assured me the room was far enough back from the road. Traffic noise wouldn't be a problem. In spite of my skepticism--the road was a stones throw away--I took him at his word and forked over a cash payment. He handed me a key, a real one, not one of those plastic swipe cards.
     I entered my room, closed the door, and heard a rumble of cars.
     The clerk had lied to me.
     To drown out the clamor, I turned on a ventilation fan. The thing was a clunker. Instead of white noise I got more noise.
     My impatience grew.
     I carried toiletries into the bathroom. The sink was tiny.  Hardly any space for personal items. While placing my stuff on the console, a toothbrush slid off the edge.
     Splashdown. A different kind of floater bobbed in the toilet.
     Boy was I pissed off. I won't repeat my choice of words. My wrath was directed at the motel for its skimpy allocation of space, and at that scumbag clerk for suckering me into renting this dump. At least I had the presence of mind to keep my anger to myself. Deep down, I knew the fault was mine.
     When reacting to screw ups, it's easy to point a finger of blame at others. Consider this quote from a person long forgotten:  'When you point the finger at someone, three fingers are pointing back at you.'
     Using two fingers, I removed the toothbrush from its wet embrace.