Dear Crab Meat Lover

Here is what renting a room at my hotel entails you: that room, and the amenities provided within said room.  Everything else is up for debate.  Yes, I am in the customer service industry, but there is a point where people need to be reminded that the hotel is not their home, hence the term "guest".

So, when I find myself in the kitchen of the restaurant, eating from a container labeled "Better Kreme" which is purportedly a better version of buttercream, I expect to be alone in my gluttony.  Imagine my surprise when the door leading out to the dumpster area opens and you step confidently in as if you own the place.  You look at me, look the the Better Kreme, and then extend your arm to show me the can of packaged crab meat you are holding.  You then ask me to open the can for you.

Let's start off with the first thing.  No, I am not opening your crab meat on the restaurant's table bound giant can opener.  We aren't going to open outside food products on our equipment, so there's that.  Worse off, the door you just came through was forty feet off of the Chesapeake Bay.  Why in Zeus' shiny murder trident would you come to a resort on the Chesapeake Bay and then go to a store and buy a can of processed crab meat?  Why not go to Philly and get a sandwich at Arbys, or go to Florida and order some orange juice concentrate? 

The thing that bothered me most, other than you finding my secret binging, was how the hell you ended up in the kitchen in the first place.  Here's the path you followed to get to where I was actively trying to get my foot to rot off:

1) You left your room and started walking down the access road.

2) You entered a wooden gate that clearly does not look inviting for non employees, yet you walked right in.

3) You passed by the stack of old chairs, desks, and hutches I took out of the rooms last week, as well as three dumpsters and a grease pit that smells like a rotting dolphin being thrown up on by homeless dock workers.

4) You then walked up a creaky ramp into a covered shed that houses industrial freezers.  At this point, you still did not stop and think that maybe you were somewhere you shouldn't be.

5) You exited that shed and came to a brick wall with a security door in it.  That door was unlocked, so you let yourself right it.

6)  You now stood in a small, dark hallway.  There is a metal door in front of you, one to the side of you, and a steep set of cement stairs leading upward into nothingness.  If you opened the door to the right, you would find yourself in the back of the restaurant, and would have to know that you were in the wrong place.  Going up the stairs, you'd get into a service hallway or onto roof access.  Neither of these are labeled, but they are clearly not places you should be.

7) What you did was open the door ahead of you, which leads down a brick hallway lined with employee postings and schedule, and ends at a metal table where a large man with a shaved head is scraping icing from a discarded bucket.  You clearly have no shame, so please, go and ask this man to do things for you.

When when I spurned your advances, you didn't even seem upset.  You mumbled you would buy a canopener in town, then you wandered back the way you came and left me to my shame.