It’s like I’m in
a princess room or a stuck inside a piece of pink bubble gum. The carpet is
pink, the walls are pink, the door to my closet is wall papered in pink polka
dots.
My room is messy. It always has been, it will probably
always be. Clothes are spread out over the floor, the trunk, the back of a
chair. Dresser drawers hang open and my closet is a disaster. Every now and
then I get up the urge to clean my room and I clean the entire thing, but that
does not happen very often. I’m a slob, okay?
Proof positive is that my floor is strewn with papers,
art projects, crafts, books, school stuff, and miscellaneous items collected
over the years. The bed is unkempt. I don’t believe in making my bed, because
why? I’m just gonna mess it up again later. But the best part about my room is
the walls. There’s flowery wallpaper about half way up and then the pink walls
start and this is where my artwork starts. Every conceivable space is covered,
wall and ceiling, with artwork. Abstract, collages, watercolor, pastel, line
drawings, charcoal, mixed media. In the corner is a self-portrait I did in high
school in which I am supposed to look like I am on a stamp. On another wall are
interiors from when I went through a stage where I was interested in
perspective. Now several new pieces are on my wall because I’ve discovered dark
black charcoal. On another wall are magazine clippings, mostly hot guys, tacked
or taped everywhere. On the ceiling are glow in the dark stars and pieces of
fabric that look like constellations glued to cardboard. This room is me, my
expressions, my individuality. No one enters who has not been invited. My
parents don’t believe in snooping and they don’t make me clean my room. This
room is freedom. I create, I dream, I cry, I listen to music, I am me here,
boiled down to my essence.
Near the bed there is a stain in the carpet. Rubber
cement, dark brown, matted and hard, a perfect circle of dried glue. A
testament to my creativity gone wild, spilled while decorating one of my
journals with clippings from magazines. Now and then I step on that spot and
the feeling is very odd, crusty and hard, and it reminds me of what this place
is, of how free.
My hand cramps up and I stop writing. That should do it for
my journal entry this week for class. I lean against my bed, homework spread
out on the floor, an art project waiting in the corner, my journal turned to a
blank page. Sitting here amid the clutter, trying to focus on homework, I feel
like I’m waiting for something to happen or maybe wishing something will.
I’m trying to focus on finishing up some homework that I
know I won’t feel like finishing tomorrow. It’s Saturday morning and I haven’t
heard from Hannah about plans for tonight. I’m hoping she’ll call and tell me
that something fun is happening because I am so bored!
I keep getting distracted from my homework, getting up to
look in my mirror above my dresser, scrutinizing my appearance, hoping that
I’ll be going out tonight. Hoping, stupidly, that I might see Jared again. I’m
really not over my embarrassment of a few weeks ago, my cheeks still get hot
just thinking about it. But I haven’t seen him since then and I do kinda want
to see him.
My reflection in the mirror is… interesting . I’ve got
a lot to criticize but in some ways I think maybe I am attractive. I laugh
picturing myself in one of those boxing rings, my arms in the air like a champ
and then the announcer comes over the speaker. “Weighing in at a mean 120
pounds and in need of the road sign, Danger Curves Ahead, Victoria Sawyer!” Some
guy said that to me once, some cheesy line, but it made me feel good. The truth
is that in general my skin isn’t quite clear enough, my forehead’s too large,
I’m not toned enough, my hair needs a trim and I’m really not certain about my
facial features. They are even, I have full red lips and my eyes are a pretty
nice shade of green but I’m not sure if it
a princess room or a stuck inside a piece of pink bubble gum. The carpet is
pink, the walls are pink, the door to my closet is wall papered in pink polka
dots.
My room is messy. It always has been, it will probably
always be. Clothes are spread out over the floor, the trunk, the back of a
chair. Dresser drawers hang open and my closet is a disaster. Every now and
then I get up the urge to clean my room and I clean the entire thing, but that
does not happen very often. I’m a slob, okay?
Proof positive is that my floor is strewn with papers,
art projects, crafts, books, school stuff, and miscellaneous items collected
over the years. The bed is unkempt. I don’t believe in making my bed, because
why? I’m just gonna mess it up again later. But the best part about my room is
the walls. There’s flowery wallpaper about half way up and then the pink walls
start and this is where my artwork starts. Every conceivable space is covered,
wall and ceiling, with artwork. Abstract, collages, watercolor, pastel, line
drawings, charcoal, mixed media. In the corner is a self-portrait I did in high
school in which I am supposed to look like I am on a stamp. On another wall are
interiors from when I went through a stage where I was interested in
perspective. Now several new pieces are on my wall because I’ve discovered dark
black charcoal. On another wall are magazine clippings, mostly hot guys, tacked
or taped everywhere. On the ceiling are glow in the dark stars and pieces of
fabric that look like constellations glued to cardboard. This room is me, my
expressions, my individuality. No one enters who has not been invited. My
parents don’t believe in snooping and they don’t make me clean my room. This
room is freedom. I create, I dream, I cry, I listen to music, I am me here,
boiled down to my essence.
Near the bed there is a stain in the carpet. Rubber
cement, dark brown, matted and hard, a perfect circle of dried glue. A
testament to my creativity gone wild, spilled while decorating one of my
journals with clippings from magazines. Now and then I step on that spot and
the feeling is very odd, crusty and hard, and it reminds me of what this place
is, of how free.
My hand cramps up and I stop writing. That should do it for
my journal entry this week for class. I lean against my bed, homework spread
out on the floor, an art project waiting in the corner, my journal turned to a
blank page. Sitting here amid the clutter, trying to focus on homework, I feel
like I’m waiting for something to happen or maybe wishing something will.
I’m trying to focus on finishing up some homework that I
know I won’t feel like finishing tomorrow. It’s Saturday morning and I haven’t
heard from Hannah about plans for tonight. I’m hoping she’ll call and tell me
that something fun is happening because I am so bored!
I keep getting distracted from my homework, getting up to
look in my mirror above my dresser, scrutinizing my appearance, hoping that
I’ll be going out tonight. Hoping, stupidly, that I might see Jared again. I’m
really not over my embarrassment of a few weeks ago, my cheeks still get hot
just thinking about it. But I haven’t seen him since then and I do kinda want
to see him.
My reflection in the mirror is… interesting . I’ve got
a lot to criticize but in some ways I think maybe I am attractive. I laugh
picturing myself in one of those boxing rings, my arms in the air like a champ
and then the announcer comes over the speaker. “Weighing in at a mean 120
pounds and in need of the road sign, Danger Curves Ahead, Victoria Sawyer!” Some
guy said that to me once, some cheesy line, but it made me feel good. The truth
is that in general my skin isn’t quite clear enough, my forehead’s too large,
I’m not toned enough, my hair needs a trim and I’m really not certain about my
facial features. They are even, I have full red lips and my eyes are a pretty
nice shade of green but I’m not sure if it
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