My room is a collection of me. It's safe and cautious--the four walls that scream to be purple barely have a purple hue. When it came time to repaint my room, I just went for the safe choice, as usual. My room is full of schedules--work, hockey practices, Student Council and NHS meetings. It knows I'm organized by the thousands of lists I make...random to-do lists and reminders on colorful post-its that I live by. My closet is color-coordinated, white to black, never out of order, always perfect (yes, I am a perfectionist). It is filled with clothes that I spent way too much on but love all the same. I think that my room probably groans under the weight of all the shoes I have neatly organized in my closet (um, am I the only one who has Old Navy flip flops in virtually every color?!).

My room is never silent--my iTunes is always playing one of the thousands of songs I have downloaded, often something from Dashboard Confessional, Something Corporate, or my guilty pleasure, Broadway musicals (I love Wicked!). Even the solace of night is interrupted by my "Nighttime Mix," songs that play softly each time I get into bed.

My room shows my limited athletic talent by a pile of field hockey stuff in the far corner...a pair of Diadora cleats, blue TK composite stick, and moldy mouth guards (and yes, it all smells). My old love of basketball is displayed from a few posters of J.J. Redick on my wall and the dusty trophies that sit on my dresser.

My room is a testimony to my complete indecisiveness of where I want to go after my last year of high school. There are literally hundreds of "You fit here, Abigail!" letters and stacks of college magazines. I keep Kaplan and the Princeton Review in business by purchasing college books which sit on a pile by my desk. They show a slight knowledge of where I might want to go or what I want to do with my life--dogeared pages and lists of colleges I want to visit.

My room knows that I am creative--I adorn its walls with tons of pictures, memories of homecomings and parties and sleepovers. My room is littered with quotes for life and cliches that I admit to love, but not always preach. My room smiles at notes from friends--the "I'm-so-glad-we've-gotten-close!"s and the "I-love-you-Ab!"s that hang up by my desk.

My secrets are hidden in two boxes under my bed that are filled with old notes, ticket stubs, pictures, and memories that are a true testimony to my past. My room sees my physical self through a full-length mirror that watches me straighten my hair each morning and apply Maybelline volumizing mascara. My room sees my emotional self through tears cried in the darkest of times, through phone calls with best friends, and through secrets I let slip. My room knows me better than I know myself--it stockpiles my secrets but welcomes with a smile, a reminder than I will never feel more at home than here.

And, if you didn't enjoy reading about my room, you can read about me...http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=53325209