We've enjoyed serving you for the last 22 years.

I'm typing on my brother's weirdo keyboard, so there will probably be typos.

I've been packing up my room; I came home (I should put that in quotes; where is home now, anyway?) and my room was ransacked. Most of my furniture was gone; my parents brought it up to Idaho for me, that was so nice. My room has been a wreck for ages, but this time was so much worse. I know I'm spoiled, but I've never, ever come home without having my bed ready for me and my room almost just how I left it.

I was standing there just now, looking around, after I finished all the cleaning, organizing, and throwing away, and thinking how empty it looked. Some of my stuff is still in there, and it still has my flavor, but it's different. And a terrible thought came to me.

My room doesn't welcome me anymore.

Then I modified the thought: my room tries feebly to welcome me, but it's not entirely succeeding.

I think of it saying, You're back! Oh, please forgive the mess. How are you?? Well, just put your suitcase down right there, and go to sleep in the nice soft be--oh, well, that's not here anymore. I'd entertain you with TV or music, but those have been removed also. But I'm fighting! I still have a phone--and books! Lots of books!

My room is going out of business. So is my childhood.