"Where are you staying?" "The Pod 51." My friends looked worried, as if I had just admitted to volunteering for a social experiment. The kind you subject yourself to for fast cash. They offered to put me up. I didn't need the charity. Instead of staying in one of New York's one hundred million regular hotels (note to editor: that should probably be fact-checked on Wikipedia?), I had chosen to spend a few nights at a swanky dormitory that played techno in the lobby. Why? Because I make impulsive emotional decisions. It should be apparent that I am, in no way, a qualified critic of the hospitality industry.

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