"It is my duty to inform you that Honey Bunches of Oats is the greatest cereal every created by man"

Thank you, Mr. Aesop Rock. And now, a portion of a short story I am working on for my creative writing class:

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Well, it's all piled up in the corner there. Tidy in a couple little plastic Tops bags. I slept about as well as Spock does (for those of you who are not Trek fans, Spock doesn't sleep). Sunlight's creeping in around the edges of vinyl roll-up curtains, stray beams of light catching the old-lady wallpaper and various posters scattered around my room. Thank God I kept my room mostly my room. I took down the drawings she had done for me months ago, they're in a landfill somewhere getting gobbled up by maggots I hope. Now it's just James Bond, Batman Returns, Daft Punk, Uma Thurman, and Max Headroom keeping my company in here. She always hated Max, but I was pretty stern about keeping that one up. If I had actually been stern about more important things, she probably would have left me far earlier in the relationship than she did. And I probably would've been a hell of a lot happier, and this would've been a hell of a lot easier.
I'm finally rolling out of bed, my Sony Dream Machine leering at me with those green eyes. Thanks for reminding me it's only 7:30 in the morning, on a day when I could be sleeping in no less. Mmm, good morning cold floor. My feet touch the wooden panels and I get that little sting of annoyance in my head. I shuffle about a little bit and slide into the clothing I have scattered about the floor. I'm too lazy to put away my clean clothes, so they take up all the space in my laundry basket while my dirty clothes lie scattered about the room. At least it's just my clothes now, I don't have any bras with nasty, pointy, cold metal clips to step on anymore.
I'm digging through my laundry basket in an effort to find some pants, seeing as to how I'll probably need some if I want to leave the house today. It's this thought of getting out of the house that draws my attention to those bags again. My glance becomes a stare. The stare becomes a glare. I feel my heart start to speed up as I spot the rolled up posters, the hoody sleeve sticking out, the unfinished paintings I kept encouraging her with. My head is pounding, my floorboards are rattling because I'm shaking, and I
feel my hand spot some denim. I pull out the comfortably baggy jeans I like to wear, more things of mine she hated. Sliding one leg over the other, the stiff pantlegs grinding along the personlegs, and then collapsing into place, floating around, slightly sagging, keeping their distance and providing plenty of circulation in areas that simply shouldn't be kept in tight quarters.