Due to a lack of responsibility and maturity, I am losing a critical war. The eternal struggle between clean and dirty has not been excused from where I spend a large portion of my time. My bedroom has not been cleaned in over two months. The couch, the bed, the work area, and the floor are important zones of my room where disarray has taken control of the region. The zones contain unorganized laundry, malodorous garbage, and left over dishes. Together, these allied annoyances form a very messy situation.

Upon first walking into the room, one easily recognizes the vast amount of clean and dirty jeans, athletic shorts, cotton t-shirts and mix-matched socks covering couch to the left, the bed on the right, and assaulting the floor without any type of organization. The floor, which bears a resemblance to “laundry explosion”, remains heavily bombarded and hardly visible. The bed, which hasn’t been classified as neat in over a month, stays smothered with variously colored pillows that don’t match and oversized blankets which actually conceal the defenseless sheets. The battlefield of fabric gives the impression that a volatile object erupted in the center of my room, propelling recently washed and worn clothes in every direction. Despite the severity of this specific condition, other issues form a presence in the situation.

Garbage, which also declared war on the cleanliness of my room, seems to have invaded every square meter of this sector. Old papers from my work area and plastic snack wrappers constantly sound-off to remind me of their existence, crinkling when stepped on and elusively scratching me when I’m unaware of their presence. Empty water bottles drum while being kicked aside and serve as blockades to my path. Scattered coins, numerous enough to resemble a field of mines, somehow work their way into the trenches of the couch.

The quantities of intolerable scents in my room serve as a need for some form of protective gas mask. Even with the smell of lemon aerosol sprays, leftover dishes odor dominates the air with emanating smells such as old bar-b-que chicken, cinnamon oatmeal, and plagued milk due to age. Although I must admit, I am unusually glad that I do not wear glasses, because shiny silverware and compact-discs refract brightly colored lights from every angle. On top of that, I fear the glass cups and plates, which if brushed against, will knock over edge, detonate, and disperse sharp glass fragments in multiple directions. Broken glass plus unaware feet equals stitches from the medics.

I often feel as though I’m losing a war of duty and obligation whenever I journey into my bedroom. Usually I tell myself that tomorrow will be the day when I assert victory. However, until that day truly comes, I leave my room in its epic battle for sanitation. After all, I still have a lot of maturing to do.