My dad says to me,"Why don't you vacuum your room?"

Well, I do hate the state my room is in. I fantasize of what I want it to look like, but the messiness is comforting. A tidy room tells nothing about a person, except that they keep it tidy. My messy room feels lived in. It's a stupid rebellion thing, where I clean and tidy my room if I feel like it. It was tidier when I was a teenager, and at my age, it should look like an adult's room. Hell, I knew a 62 year old man who had a messy and smelly room. A neighbor, upon entering my room when I lived in Vancouver, took a brief look at my disaster area and asked, "Are you depressed?" He's usually too self-absorbed to notice anyone else's problems/lives, but that was the most insightful thing him or anyone has ever said. Back to my dad being baffled about the state of my room: I have no one to decorate it for, I don't plan on inviting crowds of people for sit-downs and chit-chats, my room is for me. It's my womb that I watch movies in, write in my other diary for, think out loud in, fantasize in, masturbate in, bare my soul in, hide my true self in, and will probably be found dead in when I'm an old woman: After my parent's are dead, my well-off younger brother will buy the house and allow me to keep on living there. He'll nag me to get a job and to quit these fantasize of being an actress, and when he's at work, I'll be watchin Simpson reruns, laugh too hard and die!