The stench of a teenager maturing into man infused with the smell of unclean clothes worn from over a week ago fills the room with a muggy and unpleasing aroma. Nose hairs quickly shrivel as soon as the stench begins to crawl in. Absently scattered all across the wooden floorboard, bits and pieces of Doritos lie all around. You see visible signs of the contemplating which outfit to put on for the day, whether to wear the beat up tank top or a nicely ironed button up prepared night before. And there stands the piece that ties the whole room together, the grand maple desk, cluttered with empty bottles of water and various brands of energy drinks consumed over the past couple of days to aid in fine art, yet difficult to master, procrastination. Textbooks pile on the side of the desk, waiting to be opened, waiting to unleash its horrors. Stacks and stacks of worksheets piled up from school week occupy the floor, making it very likable to slip and cause an even greater mess than before. Yes, this is the life of an AP student, the life many would die for. With this style of living, comes a great reward, a place where I can just be me, my man cave.
I love to hovel in my cozy yet hefty den for a majority of the stressful week, sitting on a cushioned chair where the imprint of my large butt has formed due to long hours of sulking and slowly dying away as each and every gruesome assignment takes a piece of my spirit away. It has become my trusty companion over the past few years, always supporting me. “Chairy” as I like to call him, is always there; I would never have to worry about him running away with someone “who can get a job” or “actually listen”. Every single day without a doubt, that blue son of a gun just sits there, waiting for the warmth of my buttocks to be pressed against him for another painful seven hours, conquering the mounds of homework stacked upon the wooden floor, next to the tangled wires and a tattered backpack that has been tossed around one too many times. With my spirit defeated and my energy on the edge of existence, I would recede into my welcoming bed, deep like the endless blue sea; diving in to the vast lump of comfortableness every starry night, I gently doze off. Like a caring mother, my bed caresses me with its soft and gentle touch, easing every muscle, every worry, every problem I ever had. As I begin to go into a deeper state of this trance, she holds me tight whenever fear slips into my fantasy and wipes the beads of sweat off my forehead. Like my fortress, I can escape the realities of this cruel society by simply shutting my eyes close.
Rays of bright light would escape in between the cracks of the poorly closed windows as morning peaks. It slowly fills the room as it shine across, revealing the beautiful mess still present from the night before. Papers are still scattered all over the floor, some labeled to be due that day; unfortunately, no sign of work were to be found. A Cup of water half full, bags of chips open barely with any left, the large furry pillow half way off the bed, touching the dirty floor, a beautiful sight that be. Nevertheless, I lay still, arms sprawled across the blue bed, legs dangling off to the side, half-naked, a pile of drool next to my face and the bed sheets all out of place. Still lost in a world of jumping sheep, the infamous, hated, despised alarm clock creeps slowly around the corner with its deadly ring, waiting for the perfect moment to kill my dreams and drag me back into the reality.
As fantasies fade, I am reluctant to get up. Neither energy nor motivation do I have in such dreadful morning, similar to every morning. With dark bags under my eyes barely opened, I would shuffle my way towards the bathroom, nearly tripping over the mess on the floor. Bright lights escape through the window, blinding me, as if I am not blind already. What a mess my room is, I guess my bathroom not any better. Blue toothpaste dried up from who knows when, various amounts of hair products all with different logos, slightly too many face washes, Polo cologne that emits the sweet scent of a king, and everything else that turns me from a mean looking ogre to an exquisite princess, clutters the bathroom top. White marble scarred with age as years go on by; slowly it loses its purity and its tarnish with chemicals and spills. The dark oak wood underneath, once grand and beautiful with its brown coat, begins to decay and loses its life to its time in service.
With a mess that is untamable, and a stench that is merciless, the room is still a part of me. With every crumb and every piece of wrinkled clothing on the wooden floor, along with the laminated maple body guitar, played through the many years, brings value and memory. Whether those memories are filled with painful times spent on endless amounts of homework, or the delightful feeling of relief of being able to lay my head on my plump pillow, I know is I can call it my room.