Ciara Fagan, Editor

It is 11:11 on a Monday night and I should be doing my homework. Instead, homework is replaced by a combination of watching One Tree Hill and half-heartedly cleaning my room. The only two people I ever text just went to bed, they missed 11:11. I almost never miss it.
I am perpetually cleaning my room; although it is never actually clean. I have phases of how I go about my cleaning, most often I clean to evoke nostalgia. I go through drawers and papers of letters that I sent to my friends or diary entries from the second grade. There is one paper that I always stumble upon from the eighth grade where I wrote out my whole via-text-conversation with the boy I had a crush on. This boy means nothing to me now, but I never throw out the paper. I have a box of CDs that my friend made for me throughout the fifth grade and in the mix lies a CD labeled “13th Birthday CD” that I’ve never listened to.
Sometimes I clean to build a routine. I have an old wooden palette in the back of my room that I often take a knife to for the sole purpose of scraping off paint. I haven’t used it to create real art since the seventh grade. I have a big bin of markers and every few months I get a sheet of computer paper and test them all out. I like how the lines of color look on the paper, so I keep the paper, and the markers that don’t work too.
Sometimes cleaning for me is stripping my walls clean and then figuring out new arrangements for the maps of places I’ve never been and calendars I’ll never keep up with. I post up new baby pictures and new old postcards I discovered on my last nostalgia trip. There’s a picture of me and my mom eating cupcakes in the library when I was six. This picture never comes down.