Rule No. 1: Never, never touch the bedspread

Boy, am I tired of sleeping in hotel rooms. My new job was kind enough to set me up with a room until I get my own place, and I've certainly slept in worse places (see: three years of college housing; the Blue Diamond motel outside Las Vegas) but the Four Seasons this ain't. The boxed life is beginning to wear thinner than that odd burned patch on the curtains.
I've settled into as much of a routine as I can manage, though. I've mostly stopped flipping the wrong switch and plunging myself into darkness as I get out of the shower. I've established three separate but equal piles for clean clothes, dirty ones and those of indeterminate status. (Don't judge me too harshly, ladies. I've been around enough to know what the hotel room of a woman on vacation looks like. At least I have the sense to put my stuff on the floor so I can see the TV.)
There are approximately 700 Japanese exchange students staying downstairs from me. Most days at least one group of girls smiles at me when I come home from work and then giggle like maniacs as soon as my door closes. Based on previous experience, it's not likely that word of the cute American boy has made it to all of them and that several of them are on their way up right now, but that's what I chose to believe. Rather than, say, that this haircut isn't as stylish as I was led to believe.
I have a king-sized bed, which I like pretty well now that I've stripped the horrible bedspread off and burned it in the corner. There was some unpleasantness early on when I sat on it after a shower and recalled quite vividly that they only wash those things about twice a year, if ever, and I truly believe that I could have squatted a Buick in my haste to stand up. All that's in the past, though, so long as I can convince the management that either I or the foul afghan had to die, and I'm the one with the expense account.
The bed is wide with three pillows and there's a lot of space on each side of me. Sometimes when I come halfway awake in the early morning it seems like I ought to have company and I'm mildly disappointed when I discover that I don't. I always do that; it seems to have something to do with coming to in a strange bed.
On the bright side, I and I alone command the thermostat, and if I want to turn on the air conditioner so I can burrow into my remaining blankets and doze off in frosty style, then by God that is what I'll do. It feels like burning 100-dollar bills in the fireplace after paying for power in California for two years.