Clean rooms, a neat bed and a fresh scent. You can leave those little things by the generic uni door, and come inside a world of absolute filth. Well, that’s what everyone says about the average student. Me, I live with a bunch of clean freaks, ones that think any type of bacteria inside their room could exterminate the human race, so plenty of Cif, sponges and rubber gloves seem to pass by my place.
My room doesn’t seem so much of a tip, but it does have this feel of tardiness that lingers, as I’m writing this on an overcluttered table and a laptop that’s about the only thing new in this room. Discarded cans and bottles, remnants of several good nights in and out, and also a bunch of wrappers, tissues from my flu inside a Co-op bag and a bunch of papers all stacked on top of each other, waiting to fall.
I’m not a messy person, although it’s been a nickname once in while used by the parents, I’ve always stayed
moderately clean, and that reflects in this place I’m staying at. Washing usually seems to accumulate inside the baskets and at the last minute, I always seem to be bothered enough to do some washing, I do.
The floordrobes most people I know have in their little caves seem hilarious, as they usually say a lot about the person. If I ever use anyone’s loo, I never try to judge their bathrooms, it’s like World War III decided to pay a visit to most of their places. Usually, it’s the female side that lets us university students down big time, because most of the time I visit, it does seem like at the worst times, or maybe it’s because they don’t care or something.
Not that I’m saying every friend or girl’s place I’ve been to is a ridiculous mess, but it’s near to that idea. The floor is the main issue, not the walls, or the bathroom, or even the cupboard, but last Halloween I went to a party, and after using a friend’s loo, I saw the most ridiculous room in my halls.
A half broken TV displaying white noise whilst the centerpiece was covered in clothes, pants, shirts, empty polystyrene Ken’s chips and nugget boxes, books being used as coasters for cups all full of God knows what liquids, and a stench that could only be described as something of a combining quagmire of sweat, weed, and week old milk.
Sometimes I wonder if the whole generation I’m in forgot what a presentable room was, and the word tidy is. The expected view of hygiene for us isn’t just about the place we live in. Mostly it’s about appearance, and also acceptance. People judge others for not only their looks but for how others perceive the place they live at, basically the music they’ve got on show, the books they read, the TV shows and movies that they watch, and the poison they drink.
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