Hay Supermodel! [lines off your stomach]

At my hotel there is a community computer in the main lobby.
This community computer resides directly next to the main door.
This Main door locks at 11:00pm.
This main door has explicit instructions on what to do if checking in after 11:00pm.
These explicit instructions refer to a more then obvious phone to its immediate right.
This phone has the same explicit instructions, which in large bold letters state the following:

FOR LATE CHECK IN'S DIAL 600.

at 11:30pm a woman comes to the door.

pulls.
pulls again.
shakes.
pulls harder.
bangs on the door.

I look up from the computer which resides directly next to the main door.
Reaching over I open the door, at which the woman gives no thanks.
She looks at me and says.

"How do I do this?"

I look at her and say.

"Do what, exactly?"

She shakes her bag at me.

I do nothing.

"I'm Here to check in"

she states in a part irritated part "I am an important person" voice.

I do nothing.

She stares at me.

This is the point where I'm hoping this less then clever woman is realizing that she is shouting at a young girl with wet hair, wearing leggings, moccasins, a neon teal headband (to straighten my bangs) and a pink t-shirt that reads "DONT TAZE ME BRO" in large black font.

instead, she just stares at me.

"I don't work here." I say in a far to friendly manner given her tone."You have to use the phone," pointing towards the door in which she struggled so dearly. "And call the number I think.

I don't think, I know.

I go through this bit at least 3 times a week with Mr. or Mrs. something or another who cant read the signs.

(side note: as I write this, I pause to let in yet another clever tenant.)

[One half hour later.]

A tall grey haired gentlemen rattles the door.
I let him in, tell him his instructions.
He calls.
I re-let him in while he waits for the night attendant.

Moments later, he walks up behind me and reads over my shoulder.
Startled, I turn and look at him.
Reaching far to close to my face, he asks,

"Whats this?!"

"The Internet" I say.

With the man still gazing at the computer, I log out and trudge to my room.

This is why I can't get my fucking taxes done mom. This is why.