teenage wasteland

We sit in conference in my room. Me on my bed and a whole bunch of furniture and artwork that used to either be scattered throughout other rooms in the house or I had shoved into my closet as I was growing up.
There's the side table inherited from Aunt Milly that's actually made for a record player but I have long since stuffed full with books, notebooks, chunks of collected wood, and tchotchkes. There's the cupid lamp, the arm chair my mom would always tell me I was going to ruin everytime she caught me draping my legs across one of the arms. There's the tall bureau, the small bureau, the large vintage bureau, and the plastic lawn chair. There's the print of Whistler's The White Girl (which used to freak me out but now I feel drawn to her creepiness), the child's drawing (we're unsure of the artist as of yet. I feel like the tinfoil buttons taped on might be representative of something I might do but the nose connotes my sister's work), and the painting of the mad scientist I did in high school.
We're here, convening in my childhood bedroom wondering what to do with ourselves. It's not that we're at a loss as to how to spend the next two weeks. No, there's no worries there. I figured out that my dad doesn't like when I sing Sam Cooke's "Cupid" so I might enjoy pulling that out every once in a while. But the Upper MidWest is a place that will either wash you out or make you wonder about things. So I normally choose to wonder about things.