hiding in my room/safe within my womb

It's an awful shame what happens when I get lazy and don't keep my room straightened up (read: 80 percent of my life) -- I start to dislike spending time there, because it's just uncomfortable to have to step on/over so much stuff to get around, and because there's a sense of shame at having such a disgusting hovel. I start to wonder when my sister will be by to feed me rotting food, and when my dad will start hurling apples at my back to see if they stick.

So, it's an unusual and pleasant feeling of victory that greets me when I actually buckle down and clean up, as I spent a great deal of tonight doing, and will hopefully finish up tomorrow. Of all the cool stuff that I get involved with, cleaning my room may be the thing that gives me the most satisfaction. Hanging the stuff that I've been meaning to hang for months, and the stuff that I hung last year that fell sometime between then and now. Putting the shelves mentioned here a few days ago to work finally so that I have less stuff just sitting around on the floor in the corner. Vaccuuming, for Christs' sake. If I wanted, I could probably actually show other people my most personal space again. I have some cool stuff, if I might say so myself. A Jim Lingo painting, some sweet Budai prints, small things that various people including Emma's dad and I myself have made through the years. It's not particularly fair to keep it all squirreled away where no one will ever find it.