Years ago, my poor bedroom was the victim of violent creativity attack. Hastily-torn magazine pages and well-intentioned birthday cards suffocated its walls. Knick-knacks, trophies, and glittery picture frames soldiered its bookcase. Ranks of clothing and brightly patterned carpet buried its floor. A few truly unfortunate spaces had a sharpie pointed at them, and were made to sing Switchfoot songs. Even the ceiling didn’t escape the massacre, pierced with the deadly glare of glow-in-the-dark stars.
The devastation of this tragic war, wrought by my teenagerism, was documented by a single photograph:
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| Veggie Tales, the lyrics to "Let That Be Enough," and general slobbishness. |
Ah, my poor, poor bedroom. And I am to blame.
When I didn’t get the South Africa job, I knew it was time to initiate a full recovery. Because of the sharpie and the spray paint (that’s right: spray paint.), part 1 of operation:restoration for my room needed to be a fresh coat of “Mossy Log” and “Swiss Coffee.” So, with my mother as a trusted consult, I have redeemed my bedroom. Its walls are no longer calling out in distress and its wood floor is free to breathe:
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| Clockwise around the room... |
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| These closet doors are now the bane of my existence. |
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| Floor! Baseboards! |
The war is over, Real Walls officially occupy my bedroom, and I must say - sometimes this adulthood thing ain't so bad!
(Watch out, closets!!! You’re next.)
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