When I was 16, my boyfriend at the time insisted that my room looked like it belonged to a 12-year-old. Quite funny, considering how close we both were to 12, but his comment must have hurt me, otherwise why would I still remember it?

In the meantime, and thanks to a tendency to (over)reclaim my surroundings from the persistent embrace of anonymity, furniture has been rearranged repeatedly, decorations have been modified, replaced or disposed of, and the walls have been painted twice. (Lesson: a dark red ceiling is not exactly uplifting.)

The result? Well, my room still looks like it belongs to a 12-year-old. And guess what. It probably does. And that’s perfectly fine with me.

Since I’m once again indulging into self-affirming narratives, the following hypothesis won’t be entirely out of place: Perhaps the extreme shyness/self-consciousness haunting my nights and paralyzing my days is simply nature’s balancing gift.
Imagine what a narcissistic arrogant bitch I could be.