My life is characterized by the half-written song lyrics on my phone, and the dead flowers that I meant to press between the pages of a book but forgot. Now they’re crushed into my beige carpet, next to the gum I accidentally smeared into the threads, and right by the odd stain in front of my door. The stain is my favorite perfume. The cotton candy one that my mom got me from Wal*Mart. I dropped it, and it spilled everywhere, and now I can never wear it again. You can’t actually smell it in my room, and it’s only really noticeable if you drop to your knees and shove your nose right in it, so it’s wasted without the condolence that it will make my room smell good. Now if I vacuum it just smells like burnt rubber, and cotton candy that has had gasoline poured all over it. All in all the smell makes me think of the inside of a cow’s stomach.