OBSERVATIONS: I Didn’t Mean to Build a Motel

It started as a joke.

“Villains welcome.”

That was it. A line. Something sharp enough to make me laugh while I was writing dark stories in the passenger seat of an 18-wheeler at two in the morning, the highway humming under everything.

It was never supposed to turn into architecture.

But almost every night, while the truck rolled through whatever town we were cutting across, I kept building it.

In my head first.

Then on the screen.

The sign came before the structure. I could see it flickering. I could see the pink against the dark like something that didn’t belong on a normal road.

Then the hallway showed up.

Long. Low light. Carpet that looks like it’s absorbed things it doesn’t intend to give back.

I didn’t outline that.

It arrived.

And I stayed up. Night after night. Redesigning. Reworking. Moving signs. Repainting wood. Adjusting splatter. Over and over until it felt… correct.

Not pretty.

Correct.

That’s when it stopped feeling like branding.

It started feeling like discovery.

Rooms multiplied faster than I planned. A motel phone appeared. Keys. Renovations that implied something had happened. Stray animals that felt like they’d been there longer than I had.

I’d catch myself typing things like “management” without irony.

Referring to it like it existed.

Because in a way, it did.

Not physically.

But structurally.

It became bigger than a blog theme. Bigger than a setting. It started filtering people.

Some leaned in immediately. Understood the humor. Understood the darkness.

Others reacted like I’d accused them of something.

Which is fascinating.

Because I never assigned rooms.

They chose their own.

When you build something that doesn’t flinch at uncomfortable truth, it exposes who’s comfortable pretending.

Leaning into the darkness didn’t make my brand edgier.

It made it clearer.

Cleaner.

Stronger.

It stripped out the people who needed everything to feel redeemable.

And I won’t lie — when someone doesn’t get it, when they flatten it into “just a theme,” it irritates me more than it should.

Because I know how many 2am highway miles are in those walls.

How many redesigns.

How many times I adjusted a sign by pixels until it felt like it belonged on a road no one takes by accident.

I didn’t mean to build a motel.

I meant to stop sanding myself down.

This is what grew when I didn’t.

And no — it doesn’t run itself.

I’m still the one moving the furniture at 3am.

But sometimes, when I’m writing about renovations like something actually had to be cleaned…

I do pause.

Just for a second.

Because it feels less like I’m creating it.

And more like I’m documenting it.

The vacancy sign still flickers.

That part was intentional.

The rest?

I’m not completely sure anymore.

Enjoy your stay.

Checkout not guaranteed.

-Loretta

Villains Welcome.