A Museum of My Own

My mother often says, "Erica, I can't take this room any more. You are not going anywhere until it's clean." She also often says, "Well, I don't really like mashed potatoes." WHICH IS A SIN in my version of the 7 deadly sins. I don't know about God and his version. But anyway, my mom is always complaining about how "messy" my room is. I try to clean it, I really do. I have just run out of room for stuff. You see, I am the oldest of four girls. I have the smallest room. I chose to commute to college and live at home. And, over 20 years of life, a person collects a lot of crap. I go through it every now and clean and out things...give em to the Salvation Army, throw the garbage away, etc, etc, etc. But it is a never ending cycle. So, I've basically given up trying to fit everything in the dressers and the closet and under the bed. Now, I have things on display. Like a museum. Because, let's face it, I'm going to be super famous one day and everyone will want to see all the crap I have in my room. I have some clothes on my desk, deodorant, lipstick, jewelry, 8409284 television remotes (clickers for you older folk) on the nightstand, a few DVD's on the dresser. It is just lovely. The best part is...I know exactly where everything is. Except for the remote/clicker every now and then. But, then, I try to make it look nicer and I try to re-organize everything. I try to find places to fit all my stuff. Then, my room is no longer a museum, but I DON'T KNOW WHERE ANYTHING IS. I guess I'm just not meant to be an organized person. Oh well, I hear the garage door going up (yes, the nice new ones thanks to me). That must be my mother so time to run upstairs and pretend like I was cleaning my room. Toodles.