I got it down to 371 words.
The bed is positioned middle of the room, just under the only window, head against the wall. It’s not a huge bed, queen size. There are no head or foot boards, just the mattresses on a plain, black metal frame. The sheets feel like an old t-shirt, and are a slightly faded black. There is a gray down comforter at the foot of the bed, closest shade to gun metal as you could find.
There is a window just above my head. It’s only ten inches tall, but is about two-thirds the length of the wall , perfectly centered, and not blocked by any type of shades. An old fossil white candle in the middle, contained in a glass that looks like it’s molding. On either side, closer to the ends of the window, are flat, wooden incense holders, that have half burned sticks left in them. They weren’t burnt down anytime recently, because there is only a faint old paper smell. Like a garage that’s kept newspapers for years. The incense holder just above my right shoulder is crowned by a gray spider web.
To the left of the bed is the bookcase. Fashioned of cement cinder blocks and inch thick plywood. Three blocks on the floor about a foot and a half apart are the base for the first shelf. The three foot long pieces of play wood, are just long enough, that they don’t hang over the edge. There are two shelves, unpainted, both of them were full. The books are all used. Old classics and odd rarities with spines so cracked I can barely make out the titles on almost half of them. These are most likely the source of the only smell I can make out. On the top shelf, to keep the books standing up right, are bookends about seven inches tall. Two hideous owls. One is a mottled blue-green color, that reminds me of the floors of the changing room of a public pool. The other is the color yellow that butter gets when it has been sitting on the cabinet for twelve hours. We had glued googly eyes on them the week after you stole them. The yellow one is missing it’s right eye.
As I sit on your bed, listening to you howling “Smooth Criminal” in the shower - the version by Alien Ant Farm - I take in your room in your new house and try to get used to it.
The bed is positioned in the middle of the room, just under the only window, head against the wall. Of course, making the bed the main focus of the room. Seeing that you are a man, it’s not a surprise. It’s not a huge bed, queen size, not an elaborate set up. There are no head or foot boards, the mattresses just on a plain, black metal frame. Your sheets, from Target, the kind that feels like an old t-shirt, are a slightly faded black, which gives more to the worn t-shirt idea. They feel cool against my bare legs. The only bedding you spent money on, is the gray down comforter at the foot of the bed. It was the closest shade to gun metal as you could find.
The window just above my head, is odd. It’s only about ten inches tall, but is about two-thirds the length of your wall, perfectly centered, and not blocked by any type of shades. You made little effort to give the window some personality, an old fossil white candle, in a glass that looks as if it’s molding. (Can glass do that?) And on either side, closer to the ends of the window, are the flat, wooden incense holders, that have half-burned sticks left in them. They weren’t burnt down anytime recently, because there is only a faint old paper smell. Like a garage that’s kept newspapers for years. The incense holder just above my right shoulder is crowned by a gray spider web. It takes all my strength every time I enter your room to not go knock it down.
To the right of your bed is a desk. It reminds me of every desk I’ve ever had, and why I don’t own one anymore. It’s not usable. I can’t even tell what color it is. It’s covered with CD cases of every color, samplers of bands that you’ve never even heard of, DVD’s from the Skate shop . . . which I wonder why you even have. Do you really watch them? Your laptop sits precariously on top of all of them, reminding me of clumsy acrobats in a circus attempting an unsafe balancing act. On the shelves on the bottom right of the desk are piles of skate catalogues and old zines. When I went through them the first night I came over, we talked about the strange phenomenon of zines and how they have seemed to have died out. Independent publishing gave way to wanting to make money off punk rock adventures, I guess.
To the left of the bed, is my favorite part of your room, your bookcase. You fashioned it of cement cinder blocks and inch thick plywood. It’s the only thing that tells of your old apartment that you occupied, when we would still save up to go to Warped Tour during disgusting Florida summers. Three blocks on the floor about a foot and a half apart are the base for the first shelf. The three-foot long pieces of play wood, are just long enough, that they don’t hang over the edge. You were really concerned about that, because you didn’t want any more obstacles around for your drunk roommates to hurt themselves on. There are two shelves, and it makes me wonder where you found six cinder blocks just laying around, because I know you didn’t pay for them. The shelves are unpainted, because the focus is not on the fixture, but the books themselves, you explained the day I watched you put it together. Both of them were full, and those were just your favorites. The books were all bought used. Old classics and odd rarities with spines so cracked you can barely make out the titles on almost half of them. These are most likely the source of the only smell I can make out. On the top shelf, to keep the books standing up right, are bookends that we found at an antique store, during one of our adventures in Tarpon Springs. They are about 7 inches tall and are the ugliest owls I have ever seen. One is a mottled blue-green color, that reminds me of the floors of the changing room of a public pool I used to swim at in North Carolina. The other is the color yellow that butter gets when it has been sitting on the cabinet for about twelve hours. We glued googly eyes on them the week after you so cunningly got away with them in your jacket pockets. The yellow one is missing its right googly eye.
Your closet is straight ahead of the bed. It’s an average-sized closet. About four feet across and just deep enough to fit in those brown moving boxes and still be able to shut the door. But you don’t, open closet doors give the illusion of a larger room. That’s your excuse, anyway. I know that you removed them with all intentions of painting them and now they sit just outside your backdoor rotting, because you didn’t think to cover them from the daily showers. Boxes tower on one side of the closet, The bottom few I know are heavy with the books you couldn’t fit on your “custom” bookcase. The tops are odds and ends that you didn’t have the heart to throw away. Reminders of less responsible times. They’re duct taped up. On the right-hand side of the closet are piles of clothes. I don’t dare try to guess if they are clean or not. You only wear four shirts and two pairs of pants, so it really doesn’t matter. But I can’t seem to figure out why you keep all of it. The three shirts that you haven’t chosen to wear are on hangers just above the neglected clothing. And the other pair of pants is on the chair for the desk, which is in the right-hand corner of the room right by the closet.
Your door is to the left of the closet and is dull. It’s white like the rest of the walls, a fresh white, seeing as they just repainted before you bought the place. The door knob, is a false antique. Made to look like old brass, it’s a simple round design with a push button lock. (Real old-fashioned.) And looking around at the walls, there isn’t anything on them either. It’s an odd contrast to the old place that was covered in bad photos, posters, and show flyers. I’m still taking in the changes of your move, your new room, when you moonwalk in the door in just a celery colored towel and Gator Orange socks. You do a really shitty Michael Jackson impression.
There is a window just above my head. It’s only ten inches tall, but is about two-thirds the length of the wall , perfectly centered, and not blocked by any type of shades. An old fossil white candle in the middle, contained in a glass that looks like it’s molding. On either side, closer to the ends of the window, are flat, wooden incense holders, that have half burned sticks left in them. They weren’t burnt down anytime recently, because there is only a faint old paper smell. Like a garage that’s kept newspapers for years. The incense holder just above my right shoulder is crowned by a gray spider web.
To the left of the bed is the bookcase. Fashioned of cement cinder blocks and inch thick plywood. Three blocks on the floor about a foot and a half apart are the base for the first shelf. The three foot long pieces of play wood, are just long enough, that they don’t hang over the edge. There are two shelves, unpainted, both of them were full. The books are all used. Old classics and odd rarities with spines so cracked I can barely make out the titles on almost half of them. These are most likely the source of the only smell I can make out. On the top shelf, to keep the books standing up right, are bookends about seven inches tall. Two hideous owls. One is a mottled blue-green color, that reminds me of the floors of the changing room of a public pool. The other is the color yellow that butter gets when it has been sitting on the cabinet for twelve hours. We had glued googly eyes on them the week after you stole them. The yellow one is missing it’s right eye.
As I sit on your bed, listening to you howling “Smooth Criminal” in the shower - the version by Alien Ant Farm - I take in your room in your new house and try to get used to it.
The bed is positioned in the middle of the room, just under the only window, head against the wall. Of course, making the bed the main focus of the room. Seeing that you are a man, it’s not a surprise. It’s not a huge bed, queen size, not an elaborate set up. There are no head or foot boards, the mattresses just on a plain, black metal frame. Your sheets, from Target, the kind that feels like an old t-shirt, are a slightly faded black, which gives more to the worn t-shirt idea. They feel cool against my bare legs. The only bedding you spent money on, is the gray down comforter at the foot of the bed. It was the closest shade to gun metal as you could find.
The window just above my head, is odd. It’s only about ten inches tall, but is about two-thirds the length of your wall, perfectly centered, and not blocked by any type of shades. You made little effort to give the window some personality, an old fossil white candle, in a glass that looks as if it’s molding. (Can glass do that?) And on either side, closer to the ends of the window, are the flat, wooden incense holders, that have half-burned sticks left in them. They weren’t burnt down anytime recently, because there is only a faint old paper smell. Like a garage that’s kept newspapers for years. The incense holder just above my right shoulder is crowned by a gray spider web. It takes all my strength every time I enter your room to not go knock it down.
To the right of your bed is a desk. It reminds me of every desk I’ve ever had, and why I don’t own one anymore. It’s not usable. I can’t even tell what color it is. It’s covered with CD cases of every color, samplers of bands that you’ve never even heard of, DVD’s from the Skate shop . . . which I wonder why you even have. Do you really watch them? Your laptop sits precariously on top of all of them, reminding me of clumsy acrobats in a circus attempting an unsafe balancing act. On the shelves on the bottom right of the desk are piles of skate catalogues and old zines. When I went through them the first night I came over, we talked about the strange phenomenon of zines and how they have seemed to have died out. Independent publishing gave way to wanting to make money off punk rock adventures, I guess.
To the left of the bed, is my favorite part of your room, your bookcase. You fashioned it of cement cinder blocks and inch thick plywood. It’s the only thing that tells of your old apartment that you occupied, when we would still save up to go to Warped Tour during disgusting Florida summers. Three blocks on the floor about a foot and a half apart are the base for the first shelf. The three-foot long pieces of play wood, are just long enough, that they don’t hang over the edge. You were really concerned about that, because you didn’t want any more obstacles around for your drunk roommates to hurt themselves on. There are two shelves, and it makes me wonder where you found six cinder blocks just laying around, because I know you didn’t pay for them. The shelves are unpainted, because the focus is not on the fixture, but the books themselves, you explained the day I watched you put it together. Both of them were full, and those were just your favorites. The books were all bought used. Old classics and odd rarities with spines so cracked you can barely make out the titles on almost half of them. These are most likely the source of the only smell I can make out. On the top shelf, to keep the books standing up right, are bookends that we found at an antique store, during one of our adventures in Tarpon Springs. They are about 7 inches tall and are the ugliest owls I have ever seen. One is a mottled blue-green color, that reminds me of the floors of the changing room of a public pool I used to swim at in North Carolina. The other is the color yellow that butter gets when it has been sitting on the cabinet for about twelve hours. We glued googly eyes on them the week after you so cunningly got away with them in your jacket pockets. The yellow one is missing its right googly eye.
Your closet is straight ahead of the bed. It’s an average-sized closet. About four feet across and just deep enough to fit in those brown moving boxes and still be able to shut the door. But you don’t, open closet doors give the illusion of a larger room. That’s your excuse, anyway. I know that you removed them with all intentions of painting them and now they sit just outside your backdoor rotting, because you didn’t think to cover them from the daily showers. Boxes tower on one side of the closet, The bottom few I know are heavy with the books you couldn’t fit on your “custom” bookcase. The tops are odds and ends that you didn’t have the heart to throw away. Reminders of less responsible times. They’re duct taped up. On the right-hand side of the closet are piles of clothes. I don’t dare try to guess if they are clean or not. You only wear four shirts and two pairs of pants, so it really doesn’t matter. But I can’t seem to figure out why you keep all of it. The three shirts that you haven’t chosen to wear are on hangers just above the neglected clothing. And the other pair of pants is on the chair for the desk, which is in the right-hand corner of the room right by the closet.
Your door is to the left of the closet and is dull. It’s white like the rest of the walls, a fresh white, seeing as they just repainted before you bought the place. The door knob, is a false antique. Made to look like old brass, it’s a simple round design with a push button lock. (Real old-fashioned.) And looking around at the walls, there isn’t anything on them either. It’s an odd contrast to the old place that was covered in bad photos, posters, and show flyers. I’m still taking in the changes of your move, your new room, when you moonwalk in the door in just a celery colored towel and Gator Orange socks. You do a really shitty Michael Jackson impression.