Hahahaha my room is such a fucking mess, it's got all these hugeass boxes in it that are half unpacked and the contents of those boxes are all lying on my bed. I got a tech person to come set up my computer so now I have an incredibly source of procrastination. I need to hang up all my clothes and shite too. I have a nice room, I like it, it's big, my roommate's nice, we have no faculty or proctors on my floor, life is good. Yeah.

My bedroom is small. Maybe 6 feet by 12 feet or so. My twin-sized bed takes up just about half of the space, and the other wall has all sorts of dressers and closets lined up. There's really only about a foot wide floor space in the middle. My closets used to hold up pictures of people I used to care about, and now they just hold my old leather bags. My dressers are filled with books because I threw out all my old clothes or gave them away. I have a little French-looking pastry cart next to my bed instead of a bedside table, and that has just piles and piles of books on it as well. I think the most recent have been two books of collected modern poetry.

My bed has a blue and white stripes duvet on it instead of sheets because I hate using sheets. The duvet is probably about ten years old. I first got it when I entered elementary school, and it seemed really big and heavy then. Now it's been worn down and is almost threadbare, but it's still soft and cool as ever. I even wrote poems about that duvet when I was in sixth grade. I have a red and white checkered print pillowcase, which does not match anything in my room. Nudged between the mattress and the headboard is a pack of cigarettes that I bought on the way back from the gym today, along with a bottle of water. I was wearing a shirt with a picture of a panda on it. The panda was going for a sidekick to the head of some poor soul.

I also have a first aid kit in my room because my parents didn't know where else to put the big box. My mom took all the extra strength tylenol I had collected into a pile in my closet and put it into the first aid kit. I think I had about a hundred and fifty of them total, and I remember looking at them and being very content. I used to get that same feeling from looking at a pile of books or a collection of records, and I guess I still do. I just haven't looked at a pile of books outside my room in a bit.

The place I like more than my bedroom (which gets no sun, by the way, and is very bleak even in the middle of summer) is the study. The study has a very large window and lets in a nice soft breeze as well as sunlight. It's also the place where the computer is, and I am guaranteed a spiffy smelling room even after a pack of fags because of the window and the constant breeze. This room also has a very large stereo, equipped with an equalizer, a double tape deck, a cd deck, and a record deck. Very large speakers, probably about four feet tall. I remember my parents paying about a hundred fifty or two hundred dollars for it when I was perhaps five years old. I was psyched to have it, and I used to lie on my black wooden piano bench after school listening to Mozart's Eine Kleine when we first got the whole audio system. I think we also bought our first air conditioner that summer and it was located right next to or above my piano, and I used to close my eyes and feel the manmade cold breeze and be very very content.

What the study also holds is my and my mother's collective library of books. I used to only look at the books in my half of the bookshelves, but a few years ago I started nosing about in my mother's bookshelves, filled with art books. The study is quite large and we have the walls covered with bookshelves that reach all the way from the floor to the ceiling. I also have all my old diaries in here. They're quite fun to read, although I can see what a slacker I was then, too. Our homeroom teachers were the ones who checked to make sure we wrote entries everyday, and every year I wrote lots of poetry because I could use line breaks and I would have to write less than if I wrote a journal entry. And the poems! They're slightly extended and more articulate versions of the poetry I wrote in first grade, right up until fifth grade when I moved to New Jersey and was no longer forced to keep a journal.

Anyway, these book shelves hold lots of art books about pop art and art history and the thesis my mother wrote for her MA. A lot of fun. Interior Design and art magazines dating as far back as 1989! I thought that was quite cool. Groovy. Divine. Whichever.

And maybe the last couple of things I like in this room are my acid green jazz guitar which I bought for 130 dollars and a classical guitar downtown, and my collection of journals that I now keep of my own accord. There's an A4 sized one with a picture of a Miniature Dachshund on it, and that was my summer 2002 journal. Daily accounts of what happened. There's also a cloth-covered one that my mother bought for me at Barnes and Noble the same day she also bought me The Bad Popes by Chamberlaine and The Reader. That's my poetry journal. I also have an art journal for keeping sketches and scribbled lines in, and the cover of that is the Dollar Signs by Andy Warhol. That one is A5-sized, as is my bright orange journal, used for scribbling song lyrics and taking notes of notable "art" - meaning movies, albums, paintings, sculptures, so on. And lastly, I have a cocoa-colored, cloth-covered journal of the same size that I use for copying down very nice things, be they quotes, songs, or something else entirely.

I've tried and tried to add pictures to both my blogs with no avail. Fucking ay. I give up. If anyone wants to do it for me, they should send me an email.

I am picking this blog up again because I think come September, things will be very odd and funny in terms of how my room looks. I have a roommate, Steffi, who will be... um, interesting to live with in one big, open room. Whereas I go for a "I like this, I have an empty spot there, so that's the perfect place to put it!" approach to room decorating, Steffi takes the "I must plan every inch of my living space and makes sure all my furniture match my sheets" approach. We will be quite a pair, I dare say...

It's been more than a month, eh? Back at the dorm..

The room has yellow tiles on the floor. Flower prints on the wall. Very pale, a pinkish gray tone with a hinted peach. The wall has various clippings from the TIME magazine on it, 'Can You Feel The Placebo?' and 'New Books'. A couple of ads as well, for Banana Republic and Evian. Seashells, mermaids, orange liquor... A page from an article on The Producers as well, Nathan Lane and Matt Broderick looking very comedia.

The wall is lined with a bed. The opposite wall, the long wall, is lined with shelves and little cupboard-looking drawers. On the far right is a series of them, three all stacked on top of each other. The middle one has pictures. Personal pictures, people looking straight at the camera and looking genuinely happy sometimes. Also a picture of the beloved/obsessed over/crushed on/'I don't like him anymore, really'. On the other wall, the short wall, is a classical guitar. Lying upon, resting upon, three identical chairs from Ethan Allen, courtesy of the kind mother who found no other place to put them in. (Holden Cauffield is coming back, MR..)

One window, which leads out to the balcony, or the veranda as some people like to call it. The little space between the wall and the room offers a great view of:
a washing machine
an oversized bag of unrefined salt
detergent
fabric softener
the master trash can (it all comes here at the end..)
pieces of furniture too ugly for a home inside the house

The door has a couple of towels that are supposedly there to dry, only because I couldn't be bothered to put them back. Laziness, yes....

On the opposite side of Earth. Great.

On wall is: picture of W crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue.
On wall is: random snapshots of friends who haven't been in touch since June.
On wall is: nothing from my old room, all of which I miss.

feck, feck, feck.

there are three bags of clean but wet laundry on my floor.

the dryers downstairs decided to not dry my clothes but rather spin them around and around and around and around..

must go return books to library..