Rooms

I think rooms show our personality better than anything. If you really take a look at a room, I bet you'd be able to tell what the person likes, what they hate, and their interests. 

My sister's rooms are almost identical, with my littlest sister trying her best to decorate what she can under mom's supervision. A dog poster there from my inhabitant in the room is the most she can get away with.

My other sister. . . . well, let's just say she's a usual pre-teen with the pictures of Zac Efron, the Jonas Brothers, and Miley Cyrus on her walls. It almost makes my eyes burn to walk into her room and see all the fake smiles and gel-styled hair. Make up that she doesn't use strewn on her counter, like she actually uses it. More like a prop put there on purpose to explain. She likes to pretend. 

My parent's don't seem to have a taste at all. The carbon copy from a home make over magazine with the perfectly made bed, and the throw pillows just right. The big expansive walk in closet and the large bathroom and glass shower. Not that it's not beautiful just. . . . . predictable. There's no real taste in the decoration, just something to look at. 

In my room, well, if you knew me, you could laugh and say it looks just like a room I would have. The large 6 foot bookcase pushed up against the wall that connects my bathroom and closet. 108 books so far. Pretty impressive, huh?

The various pictures from my childhood that my mother insists on keeping up to 'remind me of my past'. Though the fairy pictures are fairly recent. I think I'll keep them. 

Then my bureau with the large mirror that covers half-my wall and the little lights that decorate the outer rim of it. They were made by myself on Halloween watching 13 Night's Of Halloween on ABC Family from 3 years ago. It was a distinct memory in my mind. 

Then the file cabinet and my desk. My desk holds a non-working computer, while my file cabinet holds all the works I've created, more reliable than a computer. Scattered here and there with random scraps of paper, wires, cups, pens. My mother likes to call it a mess; I like to call it eclectic. And no matter how many times I tell her, she continues to try and clean my room, resulting in a minor heart attack on my part when I can't find anything. She calls my stuff 'junk'. I call it brilliant works of art. She likes to call it 'dirty'. i call it saving everything. She likes to call it 'useless'. I don't really think she knows what all my 'useless, dirty, junk' means to me. It's my personality. And if she likes to portray a woman who never makes mistakes and is perfect, good for her. 

I prefer to be a unique spaz.