The Room.

My room is the smallest room in the house. It has one small closet with the doors taken off of it so I can see all my clothes. It is the lined with my eclectic wardrobe that consists of sack dresses, orange skirts, patterned leggings, and red skinny jeans. It is bizarre just like I am. Moving from the closet and to the right sits my writing desk, that my parents bought when they first got married, made of fine oak wood and it’s drawers stuffed to the brim with art supplies. My book The Portrait of a Lady, red, purple, and green stationary, SumoGrip mechanical pencil, and the blue sparkly shaded lamp, which I have had since middle school, sit there on the desk waiting for inspiration to strike. Continuing on to the right is draftsmen’s desk that is folded down and is a mess with tubes and pints of acrylic paint piled up on top of each other with paper,s from the previous terms classes, thrown about for good measure on top of the haphazard rainbow of paint. Across from this flurry of paint and paper is my bed with five blankets on it that provide the sensory input I need to go to sleep. The only blanket visible is the rose printed comforter that my mother bought at the Goodwill a year or so ago. On top of the mountain of blankets is my collection of knitted stuff animals that I have made. Olga stands forty-eight inches tall is fat ,ballerina pink, and stands guard over my pillow while Xavier the owl with his cobalt blue and blood orange stripes peers out with his large black safety eyes out the window across from my bed. Above the bed sits a shelf full to the brim with books ranging from Nabokov to Bellow. All of these things are pieces of my being just like my aspergers.