Who are you and what have you done with my disaster zone?

Recently, I returned home after a week of camping with my church. My state of exhaustion had long since peaked and was, at that point, nicely settled into a dull tug on my eyelids. I was tired. Every hair on my head, every bone in my body, and every sinew that lifted me up one stair at a time knew that I was already asleep.

I stumbled down the hall and plopped the bags down on my floor. My FLOOR. Even through the sliver of a crack that my eyelids were open, I could see that something was amiss. Or, more accurately, nothing was. The entire abode of mine was spotless. Yes, the very same one that had been known specifically for its many spots. My room once had so many "spots" that it appeared to not have any at all. I liked it that way. All of humanity would have written it off as an irredeemable space and just decided to forget about it, but I could live in it. It was mine. the chaos served to keep everyone else out. It was my version of a lock on my door. And to my scattered brain the non-sensical placement of my belongings made perfect sense.

I had it down to a simple rhythm. Throw stuff on the floor, desk, chair, bed, and anything else that remotely resembles a "flat surface." Wait until one or both parents explode, attempt murder, or pursue legal action against me and my room. Then I'd clean it up just beyond the passable level and watch as glorious chaos slowly descended again.

It was heaven. I loved it. But then my mom was left staring at it for a week. I hope you can hear the letters "D" "O" "O" and "M" being spelled out clearly here.

I'm fairly certain my mom didn't clean it. Sure, it was dirty when I left and when I returned it was clean. But I still find it hard to believe that this is the same room. Here's what I think happened...

My mom brought in a helicopter. Using chain saws they separated my walls from the rest of the house. Then they airlifted my room out of the country. In its place, they put a cleaned replica, which was attached with staples. (I have yet to find the staples.) So somewhere in Guatemala some poor family is living in my room and talking about the "Good ole days" when they were starving in the wilderness.

My mom won't confess the use of a helicopter. She's still sticking to her, "I cleaned it" story. Its ok, though. Guilt will win out eventually. Just give it time. Until then, I have to finish throwing random things on the floor and waiting for legal action.