My Bedroom

When I arrived home that evening, I had to step carefully when I entered my bedroom. My clothes were strewn about; I thought it a waste of time to fold and carefully put away clothing that would only be unfolded and worn, so I had dumped my clean laundry on the carpet. I didn't see the point in dropping my dirty laundry into the hamper so I left it on the floor too, where it mingled with the clean laundry. I could tell the difference because I thought the dirty clothes were spread more diffusely. The closer something was to the main pile by the door, the more likely it was to be clean.

There were some dishes; the night previous I'd cooked myself spaghetti, my favorite food, but had put it aside and the spaghetti had hardened into what appeared to be curly straw covered with congealing red sauce. There was a sideways can of soda-pop on the rug next to a brown stain. I kicked aside a pair of jeans and a running shoe, sending two hidden beer bottles rolling and clanking off the carpet to the hard-wood floor.

My bed was a swirl of sheets, comforter, blankets, and pillows. Yesterday's breakfast, the rice krispies bloated in the stagnating milk, sat at the bedside. When I tapped the side of the bowl, the milk and rice krispies moved grudgingly as a single gelatanous unit. A slight miscalculation when reaching for the Snooze button in the morning could result in a smooshy surprise.

I wanted to clean but did not know where to begin.