On Geometry

Not my bedroom, but I'd totes live there.
Totes McGoat.

Looking around my room in the dead of night, a deeply telling, almost disturbingly so character trait emerges from my furnishings. The least secure part of me believes it must be a horrible flaw to my personality, an obvious tell, it seems. A lighter part of me hopes it is simply indicative of order and a firm knowledge of what I want out of life, but this part still is worried by how obvious this observations seems now, and how until just moments ago I was completely unaware of it on a conscious level. The great middle-ground of my mind has no idea what to think, because at the very least it has never uncovered such a self-referential truth.

Man, there sure are a lot of rectangles in my room.