Renting My Room
By Pojo345

The other day I walked into my small yet adequate room and
noticed a difference. It wasn't one of those expected changes: a
moved mattress, perhaps a desk or chair brought in to spice up the
atmosphere, or maybe even an elegant list of chores on the bulletin
board.
Not this time. As soon as I stepped through the doorway "he"
came into view. Sitting on my bed in what can only be described
as "hippy fabulous" and chomping on a ham and cheese croissant from
Burger King, "he" casually extended his right hand towards me in a
gesture of greeting. I took his hand although I don't quite know how
I did that, I was practically paralyzed at seeing him in the first
place. After nearly crushing my hand under his Stenardian grip, he
stood up and introduced himself as Ricardo, neglecting to mention his
last name for who knows why (maybe he's a convicted felon).
I took a quick glance around my room. Is this my room?!? Uh,
no. All the sports posters are down. Where the Cal Ripken Jr.
shrine once stood, there is now an omage to Barry White. MY GOD!!!
Barry White?!!?! What has this world come to?
At this terrible site, I ran to the door. Outside. Down the
street. To a bridge. Jumped off the bridge. End.