“Write ten things about where you are sitting right now that
you hadn't noticed when you sat down.”
I’m sitting in my bedroom, where I've lived the past two months or so. I'm very familiar with the place by now, but when I started noticing
new things about it I couldn't stop.
- I think there’s dried glue in various places all over the walls of this room, it’s yellowed and thick and looks as if it’s dripped down in places. It’s not pretty.
- There’s a crack in the ceiling leading from the closet right up to the light fixture.
- The sunlight creeps all the way to my bed when the sun is high in the early afternoon. Usually I don’t get so much light.
- The towel my roommate left here weeks ago is the pales green I've ever seen. It’s almost a washed out gray but not quite.
- My floor ought to be vacuumed. I just found an earring on the floor; that shouldn't be vacuumed. There are also the tiny scraps from the edges of paper torn from a ringed notebook in the corner.
- It faintly smells like something burned in the microwave.
- I can hear my roommate’s computer purring in the next room.
- I have incredibly tall baseboards. They’re like— let me measure— ten inches tall! Sheesh!
- One of my sticky notes fell off the wall. It’s orange, and I think it has a grocery list on it.
- My smoke detector still doesn't light up. I even just put in new batteries. Why haven’t I stared at this thing since changing them? It’s definitely broken.
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