The room, in the past week, has become a complete shrine to the busy lifestyles of a high school student, or likewise. A person who hasn't slept in 36 hours can't afford the ten minutes to clean up, now can they? A clean room is a luxury onto itself, no matter how shabby the furniture, or how unfurnished the walls.

The phone book has become stained with pizza grease from saturday night. Wires are lying everywhere, tumbling over and intertwining each other. The red mug has remains of the evaporated water from last night's moviefest. Red cups, Cosmopolitan (bought solely for the sex articles), and soy nuts from Genisoy.

And the phone hasn't seen its recharger in days.

A moss green shirt, wrinkled and shapeless, limply hangs off the side of the desk. Four stacked up black shelves are pushed up against the wall as well, containing from top to bottom, pens, scissors with an orange plastic handle, a laundry card, Scotch tape, nail clippers, a silver necklace, a yellow notebook for all my lyrics and music, a thank you card that's yet to be sent, a set of ten Love stamps, my Phillip Exoniensis planner bought at the bookstore for two dollars and ninety-five cents, a Newsweek, a Book (no. 18), and another Newsweek. In front of the shelves are a black phone, and it rings shrilly when someone dials 603-777-8004. A brush is there too, right next to the phone, and it's got a maroon handle. The bristles on the brush all have little green balls on the tip. A red ceramic mug, with the words What Deadline? engraved into it sit next to the shelf, and beyond that, a Chinese-English, English-Chinese dictionary. Speakers, headphones, computer monitor, and the lamp fill up the rest of the space on this black wooden desk. A keyboard with stains, and a mouse sitting on a mousepad with a picture of a cat wearing cat-shaped sunglasses complete the collection.