my room
My Room
As I sleepily stumble into my house at midnight there is only one place I want to be: my room. As I walk in I try to avoid the clothes thrown all over like landmines in a battlefield. My room is the closest resemblance to me, someone who loves sports and music. I flop onto my bed staring up at the ceiling light covered in baseballs and basketballs. In one of the corners of the ceiling there is an ugly yellow stain the size of a football from my once leaky roof. My room has changed little since I was younger. Everywhere I look I see something to do with sports, mostly the Red Sox. Two red pin strips wrap around my white walls. As I sit on my bed tucked away in the right corner, I catch myself staring at a huge picture of Fenway Park hanging above my desk. To the right the infamous picture of Carlton Fisk waving his homerun right hangs over my closet. Dangling from a hanger on my closet is a retro New York Mets jersey signed by Mike Piazza that waits to be encased. Right next to my bed an oversized Red Sox logo sticks to the wall. The logo is almost bigger than the wall itself. A black and red “jet life hangs” over my head, probably the only thing that doesn’t have to do with sports in my room.
My desk is littered with nickels, dimes, and pennies that I have tossed on it. There are clothes all over my desk; some folded others rolled up in balls that have been sitting there for days. The top of the desk is covered in filthy black hats with faded red CW logos on it. Dodge Viper, Corvette, and Porsche 911 model’s stretch across one of the shelves. Next to these are Nomar Garciapara, Ryan Gomes, and Jerry Rice, whose heads seem like they never stay still. Two small speakers continuously play music from my ipod sit next to the small Porsche. Next to me, on my nightstand sits my hated black alarm clock with its red numbers. A cell phone charger cable snakes across the nightstand, which is consistently plugged in behind it. Trophies from little league
As I sleepily stumble into my house at midnight there is only one place I want to be: my room. As I walk in I try to avoid the clothes thrown all over like landmines in a battlefield. My room is the closest resemblance to me, someone who loves sports and music. I flop onto my bed staring up at the ceiling light covered in baseballs and basketballs. In one of the corners of the ceiling there is an ugly yellow stain the size of a football from my once leaky roof. My room has changed little since I was younger. Everywhere I look I see something to do with sports, mostly the Red Sox. Two red pin strips wrap around my white walls. As I sit on my bed tucked away in the right corner, I catch myself staring at a huge picture of Fenway Park hanging above my desk. To the right the infamous picture of Carlton Fisk waving his homerun right hangs over my closet. Dangling from a hanger on my closet is a retro New York Mets jersey signed by Mike Piazza that waits to be encased. Right next to my bed an oversized Red Sox logo sticks to the wall. The logo is almost bigger than the wall itself. A black and red “jet life hangs” over my head, probably the only thing that doesn’t have to do with sports in my room.
My desk is littered with nickels, dimes, and pennies that I have tossed on it. There are clothes all over my desk; some folded others rolled up in balls that have been sitting there for days. The top of the desk is covered in filthy black hats with faded red CW logos on it. Dodge Viper, Corvette, and Porsche 911 model’s stretch across one of the shelves. Next to these are Nomar Garciapara, Ryan Gomes, and Jerry Rice, whose heads seem like they never stay still. Two small speakers continuously play music from my ipod sit next to the small Porsche. Next to me, on my nightstand sits my hated black alarm clock with its red numbers. A cell phone charger cable snakes across the nightstand, which is consistently plugged in behind it. Trophies from little league