Your room is Filthy

WARNING: The following content is not meant to offend anyone...so please don't get offended. We all love you, you moms.

Your room is filthy. It's filthily filthy. It's overflowing with filth. In fact, you could get a lifetime achievement award for filthiest room. Every corner, every spare inch of it spells filth. The filth is oozing out of the ground, dripping down the walls and lurking in the small nooks. Filthy filthy filth. How you live in such filth, I may never know.

Why do you live in this filth anyways? Do you enjoy sniffing the horrible stench? Do you feel content when you see green muck slithering about? Does the fact that it enhances your cleanliness, for trust me, even you are comparatively clean in comparison to your room, make you feel good? Have you decided to create a rat plantation? Are you hoping that by keep your room as phenomenally filthy as possible, you will be driving me away? Because it's not working.

Did you care to think about what could happen if this mess isn't cleaned? Do you have any idea how many mosquitoes are hiding in the smallest of grooves at this very moment, waiting to attack? Did you ever think that maybe you wouldn't be able to sleep for the night and that because of that, you will do horribly in class? And when you do horribly in class, it reflects in your paper? And then what if you flunk your boards? Which college will you go to? You will end up working at the theatre - not as a ticket seller, but as a toilet cleaner from ten a.m. to five p.m. You will die a horrible death from some horrible illness that you couldn't cure because you didn't have the money. Some toilet related disease.

And then what will the rats in your room do?

Or what if you get malaria? Or rabies? Do you think I have all that money to waste on curing you? Didn't you ever think of that? Do you realise that I will have to pay, literally, if you die?

And I'll have to take care of your rats. Rats!!

Your desk is one big catastrophe. There are clothes strewn across it. That's right, clothes. Books are sprawling everywhere - on the floor, on the bed, on the ground. Ink has been splattered spectacularly across the wall, four huge droplets. Your compass box has died under the bed. There is leftover pizza under you table, presumably for the rats.

Your rubber bands (and in case of boys) socks are hanging over your computer screen. A spider crawled into your schoolbag a week ago. It's still there. The floor, which, may I remind you, used to be a nice white colour has now turned into an oddly sickening shade of mucky yellow. Wash it. Your blanket is in a monstrous heap at the foot of your bed. The pillow has somehow reached the bathroom door. The contents of the bathroom (note that I did NOT say contents of the toilet) have reached your bed.

Your closet is thoroughly demolished. I admire the craftsmanship with which you have created your tower of clothes. But I would like to remind you that it was balancing tediously on the closet door which made the task of opening it quite a pleasant experience. Your shirts have been crumpled to the extent that they can fit in my coin purse. Your jeans are hanging like dead leaves on the closet hooks. The only cleanliness I can see is present on the sparkling hangers.

What will you do when you go to hostel? You will have to clean your own room, wash your own floors and (God knows how you'll do this) fold your own clothes. Then don't come crying to me. Not that you will. I'm sick of this filthy pigsty that you call as your room. I don't even know why I clean it for you, you ungrateful oaf. In fact, I won't clean it at all. Let your room rot. You'll be begging for me before the week is up. You'll see. You won't last a minute. You and your little rat friends are in big trouble.

The worst part is, you probably didn't listen to a word I said. So I'll summarize it for you.

Clean your room.