stick to the status quo!

This isn’t my room anymore. It’s like my sister grew into the space I left, like my mother swept away all of these small, tiny Lia-things to make room for her. It looks different, it smells different. Even my desk, once a bastion of all things Lia, my books, my papers, my pens, the fax machine my dad bought me as part of a bribe-package because I refused to talk to him for months over some exaggerated slight, it feels different. Books have been rearranged, and boxes moved. Papers have been rifled through (and buried as if in shame), and CDs randomly stacked in unexpected places. Little knick-knacks have mysteriously appeared, wallowing awkwardly in all the blank-eyed plaster cheer they can muster.

I don’t like it; I don’t like any of it. But it feels like a sort of penance. Like the prissy, backhanded slap of a faggy karma.