I've previously mentioned my room; for those who were not paying attention, I will reiterate that it is awesome.
The previous inhabitant, like a majority of room inhabitants in the co-ops in general, made something of a project out of the room. This project was slightly unusual in that it didn't involve the room becoming more colorful, less useable, or more infused with the occupant's personality. No, this project was to turn room 1D into the closest approximation of a reasonably nice hotel room that can be accomplished in a co-op.
The floor is covered in a thicker carpet than the institutional mat standard for the rest of the house, and it's installed properly and in good repair. The walls and ceiling are neatly and evenly painted a respectable if somewhat unrelenting white. The bookshelves are properly installed. There's a queen bed with an attractively modern wood frame, table lamps that match the bed, and a bedside table that doesn't appear homemade. Over the bed hangs an attractive, aggressively inoffensive, watercolor print.
My favorite part, though, is what I found on the bedside table when I moved in. Every hotel room has to contain a book that looks good but will never be read. Usually it's a bible, but that was apparently where the room's caretaker drew the line. So instead it's an impressively thick, dust-jacketed volume of the collected stories of Sherlock Holmes (though to my dismay, it isn't illustrated like Kristen's impressively big Holmes book).
It's Friday, it's raining, I'm not at work because in addition to the literal weather which I, in my basement room, am under, I am also under the metaphorical weather, and I'm shamelessly indulging my love of terminally cute indie rock by listening to the Shins. There couldn't possibly be a better way to proceed from here than to crawl into bed and read 125-year-old mystery stories, so if you need me, I'll be on Baker Street.Posted by dianna at February 9, 2007 03:42 PM