10
10
You walked into the bathroom.
Saw the sink.
Did you wash your hands?
Brush your teeth?
No.
You said,
FUCK. YOU.
You scrubbed your filthy socks.
You squeezed out a week’s worth of body grease.
You used half a bottle of detergent —
Probably some off-brand powder that smells like lemon regret.
You lathered and slapped and rubbed like a fucking washboard reenactment.
Cool.
But then what did you do?
Did you rinse the sink?
Did you clean the foamy, gray death-water you left behind?
Did you remove the soggy balls of fabric snot from the drain?
NO.
You finished your little pioneer laundry session and walked away like
Now the next person comes in,
And i
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You walked in.
You saw the sign.
You knew the rules.
"NO SMOKING."
Simple. Clear. Universal.
But you, king of disrespect, thought
FUCK. YOU.
You didn’t just break the rules.
You tried to erase them.
You unhooked the sign like it’s some passive-aggressive roommate’s decoration.
You created your own lawless bubble where your cigarette is more important than everyone else’s lungs, furniture, sleep, and dignity.
You lit up inside a rental.
Not a street.
Not a patio.
Not a smoking room.
Inside.
Like a fucking 80s airplane passenger in denial.
Now the room stinks.
The pillows stink.
The walls stink.
The next guests will walk in and ask
This is
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You walked past the sign.
You ignored the schedule.
You didn’t check your booking.
You saw a door slightly open — probably for cleaning, for air, for a dying mop to breathe —
And you just walked right in like you own the place.
FUCK. YOU.
Do you think we sit inside with the door open just waiting for you to bless us with your presence?
Do you think doors are only ever open when it’s party time?
You saw zero staff.
Lights half-off.
Cleaning shit everywhere.
Clearly no one ready.
And you still strolled in like a lost toddler looking for snacks.
This is not a fucking shopping mall.
This is not Starbucks.
This is a hostel.
With check-in hours.
With **ru
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You sat down.
You looked at your crusty pilgrim toes or your filthy finger claws and thought:
FUCK.
YOU.
You didn’t go to the bathroom.
You didn’t put down a tissue.
You didn’t clean up.
You just clipped and let fly.
Nail shrapnel scattered into shared space like organic landmines.
Do you know how fucking mentally violating it is to climb into a bed
and find a stranger’s half-moon toenail waiting for you like a tiny corpse?
It’s not just gross.
It’s unforgivable.
And no — this isn’t some “cultural misunderstanding.”
This is basic feral-ass hygiene.
You don’t shed pieces of your body into shared floors like you’re marking territory.
You’re
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You show up in your little black shirt.
Cross swinging.
Smiling.
Talking about humility, community, and the Way.
But when it comes to bedtime?
Oh no — not Father Comfort.
He needs a private room with sheets made by angels and a quiet night to recharge his divine Bluetooth.
FUCK. YOU.
You drag in a dozen confused, sweaty, loud teenage boys,
Drop them into a dorm with strangers like we’re running a fucking spiritual daycare,
Then peace out to your three-star hotel like
These aren’t pilgrims.
These are unsupervised hormonal grenades.
One’s trying to dry his socks on the lamp.
Another is filming a TikTok in the bunk bed.
Two are play-fighting
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You show up with a clipboard and a smile.
You say you're a teacher.
You say it's an educational experience.
You say the kids are "just full of energy."
Yeah — the same kind of energy as a pack of caffeinated raccoons with no parenting.
FUCK. YOU.
These aren’t students.
These are unsupervised content factories who walk in filming shit for their stories,
blasting TikTok, eating Doritos on the bed,
and treating the shared kitchen like it’s a fucking fast food dumpster.
And where are you?
Sitting in the corner, drinking herbal tea and posting on Facebook like
They leave the place wrecked.
Cereal spilled everywhere.
Bathrooms look like a failed plumb
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You arrived in a swarm.
Five. Six. Seven of you.
Fresh fades, tank tops, matching backpacks, and absolutely zero awareness.
First five minutes?
Fine.
Second five minutes?
You’ve already taken over the dorm.
Shoes everywhere.
Bluetooth speaker out.
Jokes at full volume.
Someone shouting “Brooo” every 10 seconds like it’s a fucking ritual.
Then it begins.
The game.
The contest.
The ancient masculine sport of
Who Can Be the Bigger Fucking Dick in This Group.
Let’s see who can talk louder.
Who can take up the most space.
Who can burp the longest.
Who can blast reggaeton first thing in the morning.
Who can ignore the quiet signs the hardest.
Who can
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We told you.
We wrote it.
We said it.
We showed you the sheets.
We pointed. We smiled. We begged.
“Please use the bed sheets.”
And you looked us right in the eye and said
FUCK. YOU.
You slept directly on the mattress.
With your sunscreen.
Your Camino sweat.
Your foot fungus.
Your dead skin cells.
Your half-peeled shoulder tan.
You left a print.
A shape.
A fucking ghost of body grease that will haunt us forever.
This is not your house.
This is not your private room.
This is not “just one night.”
This is a shared bed in a shared hostel with other humans who don’t want to absorb your essence into their soul the next day.
Do you know h
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You arrive.
We offer you a simple, convenient coupon for breakfast.
Café just down the street.
Breakfast ready when you get there.
We’ve coordinated it. We paid in advance. We keep it smooth.
Price: 4 euros.
You say yes.
You take it.
You eat.
Then you come back acting like you just uncovered the fucking Panama Papers because the café sells it for 3.50.
Cool story.
Here’s a trophy.
Now go cry into your croissant, you ungrateful budget goblin.
FUCK. YOU.
Yes, it’s more expensive.
That’s called business, genius.
You paid for convenience, coordination, and clarity.
You didn’t get scammed.
You got served.
And since you’re suddenly obsessed with
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You know what you did.
You opened the fridge.
You saw the name.
You saw the date.
You knew it wasn’t yours.
You looked around.
No one there.
And you thought,
It’s not “only a little.”
It’s not “just a bite.”
It’s someone else’s dinner, you absolute goblin.
They walked all day.
They went to the shop.
They carried that food in their backpack for two hours in the sun.
They wrote their name.
They followed the rules.
And you?
You treated it like it was a communal sacrifice to your empty soul.
You’re not starving.
You’re not poor.
You’re just fucking lazy and entitled.
You didn’t feel like walking 200 meters to buy your own lentils
So you took
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You walked into the bathroom with your little towel and your plastic bag of shit
And didn’t come out for forty-five. fucking. minutes.
What the fuck were you doing in there?
Rebirthing?
Shaving your spiritual trauma?
Summoning the rain gods to bless your armpits?
This is a hostel, not your private rainforest retreat.
There’s one shower.
One.
And you’re in there steaming like a fucking dumpling while six people are lined up outside getting progressively more homicidal.
You’re not cleansing yourself.
You’re hogging shared resources like a selfish crustacean.
And no, we don’t care if you walked 30 kilometers today.
So did everyone else.
They stink too.
But
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You come outside.
You light up.
Right by the door.
Right by the window.
Right where the wind lovingly picks up your toxic cloud and shoves it straight inside where people are trying to breathe, eat, and exist like normal fucking humans.
FUCK. YOU.
You don’t even walk two meters away.
You don’t ask if it’s okay.
You don’t check where the smoke goes.
You just post up like it’s your personal designated smoking zone and start slowly converting oxygen into cancer for everyone else.
And don’t give me the weak little
People are here from all over the world.
They’re tired. They’re hungry. They’re trying to survive 10-bed dorms and shared toilets.
And now they get to
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You booked ten beds.
Cool.
Fine.
Expected.
But what you didn’t mention, not in the booking, not in the messages, not in a single breath of communication, was the fucking fleet of metal horses you were dragging behind you.
Ten people.
Ten bikes.
No heads-up.
No respect.
Just a full-on bike invasion like you’re competing in the Olympic Camino Time Trial and we’re your pit crew.
FUCK. YOU.
We don’t have space for ten bikes.
We don’t have magic bike racks that fall from the ceiling when your dumbass group arrives.
This isn’t a fucking garage.
It’s a hostel.
Beds. Towels. Humans.
Not spokes, pedals, and your shitty Lycra gear dripping sweat all over the flo
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