Staring at the ceiling. It's not really blank- there's this texture on it, like uneven dots, or maybe white sand. This is just a side effect of plaster of Paris, or whatever it's called. If you look close enough, you can even see dirt and yellow smudges up there. Just how they got there is beyond me.
Staring at the fridge. What magical, arctic wonders might it contain? Could there be some leftover pizza from last nights party? Maybe, if I'm lucky, some Dr Pepper?
Staring at my feet. Lift, set, lift, set. The socks, like the ceiling, aren't too clean- I can spot lint here and there, and the once-absolute white of the socks has since died, and is now pale, with a hint of gray to it. Lift, set, lift, set, stop.
Staring at my hand. The pale skin, so pale it's flushed red constantly. The nails, jagged from compulsive biting. The scabs around the nails, from when I bite the skin. The muscles tensing, right underneath the salt-colored flesh. The fingers wrapping around the fridge door.