Sample Essay on Bedroom
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spaces between my bed and the rest of the room are miniature, but I’m glad that this room is mine. I still remember two months ago when my roommates and I were drawing for rooms. We were sitting on the floor in the middle of the living room of our new apartment. The only thing we could use to draw for the rooms was our lease contract; which we tore into four pieces, three pieces to put the numbers of the rooms on, and the other piece to use as a container to mix the numbers and draw for the rooms. We were sitting Indian style on the floor because we didn’t have any furniture yet, as a matter of fact, we didn’t have anything yet. No couches, no tables, no lamps, no television, no microwave, no chairs, no dishes, no toilet paper—nothing, just us, and our container with the room numbers mixed inside it. The master bedroom was room number one, the middle-sized bedroom was room number two, and the smallest bedroom was room number three. We each had a chance to shake the container, and Edith was the last one to shake so she was the first one to pick out a number, I was second, and my other roommate Nereyda, was last. Edith got number one, Nere got number two, and I got number three. Yes, number three, the smallest room. I was a little disappointed, but I didn’t show it. Why was I going to complain about the room I got stuck with? The way we drew for rooms was the fairest way to go about the situation. Therefore, I kept my mouth shut and didn’t think about it anymore.
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Now it’s been two months, and my room and I seem to be the only things that have existence in this empty three bedroom apartment. That is why I love my room, everything about it I love. Not only is it almost an exact replica of my room back home, with some minor(major) differences, but is the only place that even comes close to feeling like home. My bed, which I placed next to the right side wall, because I had no choice other than to put it there, is what takes up most of the room. It is dressed with the same comforter that I had back home. A banana colored down comforter, with blue, green and burgundy colored flowers decorated on it. Six pillows, two giant ones, two standard size ones, and two small ones, with the same design, rest on top of it. Next to my bed is a brown end table with my favorite books, my precious moments bible, my red paper cover beat up bible, Tuesdays With Morrie, The Catcher In The Rye, Lord of the Flies, Watership Down, A Clockwork Orange, The Greatest Salesmen In The World, Parts One and Two, Pierced By a Sword, Conceived Without Sin, and the Prayer of Jabez, all squished into two book ends about to fail their jobs. Also on the brown end table is a picture of my boyfriend leaning against a wall in his room, and my alarm clock, which is responsible for me making it to class everyday.
A brown lamp, that I bought only because it was on sale, stands on the left side of the end table. Approximately half a foot away from the lamp is my dresser, which is the last thing I was able to fit in the room. Like the end table, it is brown and topped with my favorite things. The bottom part of the dresser are just drawers, six to be exact, each filled with items of clothing ranging from cotton panties to black spandex shorts to work out in. The top part of the dresser, the mirror part, has four built in shelves with two of my favorite dreamsicle angels on each of the shelves. And on the base part of the dresser, where the mirror is placed, there is a white, rectangular clock with two angels on top of it. The white pale walls, that remind me of walls from an asylum, with no paintings or decorations on them because I still don’t know if we can nail anything on them, is all that is left to mention of my room. My room might not be as exciting or as pretty as I would like it to be, but it is my room, all mine, and that is where I live.
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