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Write a paragraph in about 75 words using the visual aid given:

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I am here at home, and my room is a mess. Crumpled white green tissues piling up beside old sick tapes of pop gaudiness. Trying to discard my tasteless past, but I realized I can’t let go of Mandy Moore, what more the others? The trail of tissues end as the trail of clothes begin. Where the hell is my hamper? All the clothes sleep beside the trash can. The clothes and the trash mingle, and I have a sinking suspicion that I have mistakenly thrown out some clothes thinking that the trash can was the hamper. Papers flying everywhere, like that Harry Potter scene, except that was joyous, or I guess a bit torturous, not knowing where all of those letters came from, knowing they are all yours, and then someone tries to take them away from you.


My mirror. There’s a part where you can put all of my accessories, but my earrings keep spilling out. I’m starting to wonder whether I sound right or not. Slip. Will I slip into something worth saying? Worth feeling?

There are hidden tissues everywhere. It’s like an easter egg hunt. They keep popping up. I hate my allergic rhinitis. What if I’m allergic to tissue and that’s why whenever I blow my nose, I have to do it again, like a mad vicious cycle?

At the foot of the mirror, there’s that beauty travel bag that I never unpacked. Lotion–I’d forgotten to take care of my skin. Old readings from lit class that I promised to read are all crammed in a paper bag. The blue broken weighing scale is sitting beside the weight of those unread stories.

A white cord for my laptop, a black cord for my hair dryer, another black cord for my hair iron. My hair iron is served on a ceramic plate. They all hope to never come into contact with those ghastly tissues, and start an anger against my mess.

Purple Modes all-night napkins overshadowing blue Modes regular with wings.

Crawling up the bookshelf: picture frames–no new additions. Family, friends. Some forgotten. The next part of the shelf: books I’m reading but are currently unfinished. Up: old diaries–lives past, old jokes, old conversations, old life. Five notebooks of songs: remembered melodies, no knowledge of notes or any instrument, pure concoction of mind, preserved by nothing but memory. The dictionaries and thesauruses: concession: I’m imperfect, might no know what I’m truly doing, might be pretending, might be bullshitting my way through. Next: the debate books I never read. I am to blame, and I know it. The inspirational self help books sit beside them. A black mug separates them. Pink frilly pens sticking out of the black mug. Further up the bookshelf are clearbooks of memories. Old tickets, old class photos, old notes scribbled during recess. A pile of rubbish beside the memories, and the rubbish is in a blue plastic Pooh bag. These are for my imaginary garage sale. All the books I hate, all the movies I hate, all the gifts I didn’t give to the person it was supposed to be for because I realized at Christmas that they hated me.

On my wall, a poem, probably no one will understand, and I don’t even know if it’s good because even I don’t understand it. Somebody laughed at it. It’s pretty crazy, but I was vulnerable when I wrote it. When people are crazy, seems like they are courting laughter, but no crazy person wants to be laughed at during the time when everything is spinning out of control.
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