The string lights are on that awful flashing mode. It is a nonstop blink blink blink god my eyes. The blankets are wrapped in a hypnotizing spiral and falling off the left corner of the mattress. There are shoes scattered across the floor. Mom always said move the shoes move them there could be a fire you could trip and then you’re dead and it won’t be quick. The curtains are black but thin and everyone can see inside stay away from the windows someone is watching you. There are those little rugs Mom calls scruffy that feel like sandpaper against your heels. The rugs shouldn’t slide when you walk across them because Mom put those weird sticky patches on the bottoms so you wouldn’t slip but they never worked and walking across them makes your legs shake because if you go any faster you’ll fall back against your head and your blood will seep into the dark wooden floorboards and Mom will have to clean it and it will be your fault. The desk is a mess. It’s always a mess and you have to be careful if you move anything it’s all just one big landslide of pens and papers and garbage and you can’t let this room get any more disorganized but it will anyway and it will be your fault. The green on the walls is like cartoon vomit and the paint is uneven and bumpy like boiling flesh and you can’t touch it you’re going to be sick. The bookshelf is too big and crowded with thick hardcover novels and it’s not screwed into the wall like the Ikea ad said it should be and it looks like it might fall at any given moment, leaning forward awkwardly with its long lanky frame like a six-foot tall high school boy with a wicked metabolism. You have to leave but the door is jammed. It’s always jammed and covered in scratches from the cat trying to get in but you gotta get out or you’re going to lose it again.