After walking through my garage door when finally arriving home for Winter Break and suffocating my dog in hugs, I made a beeline straight for my room. The anticipation grew with every stair until I finally laid eyes on my fluffy, full-size bed. Shoes flew off and next thing I knew, I was sprawled out and buried in pillows. It was then that I began to look around at my "unique" style of décor. In my dorm room, everything was color coordinated and practical. Everything there had a place and everything had a purpose. In my room at home, it looked like my whole life had just thrown up.

In the corner was a fake palm tree used in a proposal. Photos covered my mirror and the pile of clothes I never got the chance to put away last break, was still taking up my desk chair. There were cheap trophies lining the flat surfaces and my collection of beanie babies was still overflowing its bin, seemingly untouched from when I was 8 years old. To some, including my mother, my room looked like a prime candidate for a yard sale. But to me, all of that junk was memorabilia from moments of my life thus far. The spoon roses on the shelf were from this Pinterest kick I went on, when all of our crayons were sentenced to cremation on random surfaces. The shutter shades from various celebrations were sitting on the lip of my mirror, right above the plethora of photo strips taken in cheap booths at the movies and malls throughout middle school.

Now, many girls of the ripe, young age of 18 probably have the basic rules of room decoration all figured out. They have a makeup desk and twinkle lights, rooms that qualify as Tumblr images. Trust me, I've tried to go down that road; the collection of pillows covering my bed and the photo wire that spans the length of the room. But I'm what's classified as a terminal pack rat. Whether it's because I'm sentimental or cheap, the world may never know. But I do know that when I get the chance to lay down in my own bed after a long time away from home, and am able to look around and relive the memories turns my cold heart warm again.

So this is an unconventional thank you note directed toward my room at home. For housing my memories and making me feel old and past my prime. Yeah, it's most likely a fire hazard, but it's my fire hazard. So when Halloween rolls around and everyone's too broke to buy costumes, all I'll have to do is take a road trip home and you'll all be jealous. And one day, when I'm unpacking all the boxes my parents ship to me because they're moving to a condo in Florida, I can show that pair shutter shades to my kids and tell them, "Those are collectibles now and they're probably worth a lot," like my parents do to me now with their walk mans and 80's clothing. I just want to say thanks, room, for putting my life on display and for making my house home.