The Buttsauce Express

I am in a bedroom. It is not my bedroom. It is a good friend's bedroom. The layout is that of an irregular pentagon. Three walls one would expect, but where the fourth should be, instead three walls arc out from the frame of the building and increase the floorspace. In the farthest part of that nook the head of the bed is situated. Two inflatable guitars, literally air guitars, stand next to the bed and also next to the actual acoustic guitar delicately placed in its holder, rubber tongs pinching the neck. Following the line of instruments of the wall stands a standard four drawer dresser. On the top sits protein supplements, a clutter of papers and a funny steel statue of a drummer made out of modified bits of hardware - screws and washers. Bookshelves, a computer desk and random boxes of belongings are scattered across the rest of the walls, in addition to the three doors: One to a bathroom, one to a closet and one to the living room. The floor is covered with a nondescript tan/gray rug with random stains and bits of debris begging for a vacuuming. The wall hangings are random and indicate an inaccurate love for darts. A large, antique dartboard encased in a wooden cabinet advertising the bar, and I assume the show, Cheers hangs on the wall farthest from the living room door. Above the bathroom an analog clock marks time on a pattern mimicking a dartboard. I have never seen the owner of this room play darts. Certificates of achievement, unframed and simply thumbtacked to the wall, hang randomly. Action figures and Hot Wheels cars, still in the packaging, accompany the certificates of achievement. Two wall hangings are framed: One a history of the family name with the Irish crest. The other, a photo of him and his sister. Beneath that, a photo of his other sister thumbtacked. The centerpiece of his wall hangings is the poster I bought him for a birthday long ago: "Things You Should Know About Chuck Norris" with quips like, "There is no theory of evolution. Just a list of animals Chuck Norris allows to live." The bed is comfortable and large. The sheets are tossed up and unmade. In the computer desk a hopeless tangles of wires, books, boxes, and every imaginable bit of refuse occupy the shelves that are offended by the lack of organization they support. Half on a wall, half off, supported by a bookcase a handpainted sign one foot tall and three feet long says, "It's always 5 o'clock in Matagorda" and the caps of beer bottles are nailed to it.

The things in this room make sense to me, but I have to consider what the sojourner through this living space would infer. It is almost entirely nonsensical. He would believe the person sleeping in this unmade bed was a meat head, dart-loving, musical student, nerd. It makes so much sense to me though, because I know the man. BARF THATS 500 WORDS LOST MY TRAIN OF THOUGHT