What Is My Favorite Room Essay

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Our house was over 100 years old, with long narrow windows and a black lacquered front door, made of solid oak. When my dad stripped the lacquer off the door, it still showed the cut marks made by charcoal or a pencil that served as a guide for the original door maker. Our house was a medium brown colored two-story stucco dwelling, nestled between old elm and pine trees that sat atop a hill. In the winter if you stood at the very edge of the street, on your tipee toes, you could see Lake Calhoun at the bottom of the hill. I loved my old house.

My room, located on the second floor, was shaped somewhat like a hotel suite, with a separate sitting area that boasted two windows. On the wall next to the windows was the
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I also had a painting of Minnie Mouse, given to me by my great-aunt as a Christmas present. She had painted Mickey for the boys and Minnie for the girls. Minnie was allowed to grace my bedroom walls because she wore a pretty pink dress and a great big pink bow in her ears.
My room was my haven, my place to play dress-up, dance, daydream, whatever I wanted. Life was perfect in my room, except, it wasn’t pink. Begging my parents to paint or wallpaper my room pink was a task that started and ended just about every day. I felt my room would be perfect if the walls were a soft pastel, pretty shade of pink, not unlike the tutus I always saw and the dance shops. Every day, I had to imagine my room was pink, with the windows trimmed in white. I can still see it now, as I saw it in my mind’s eye at six, my beautiful room, not with walls of drab white, but a soft, soothing, sweet pink, like cotton candy at the state fair.

During the summer of my eighth year, my mother, one day called me into the house. Running inside, I asked her what she needed. Go to your room, was all she said.

Horrified at the thought of being in trouble, I stammered that I hadn’t done anything
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