My room is a mess.  My mother constantly cites this as the reason why my father goes on his tirades.  She calls me lazy, my father calls me lazy.  While this could be considered true - the bowls of curdled milk with bits of cornflake embedded within laying on my desk; the clothes strewn about my room; the garbage bags overflowing in the corners; the piles of towels in the hallway; the books lying in haphazard stacks around my room.

These are the reasons my mother gets angry with me; why she calls me lazy across the living room.  I think she blames me, to some degree, for the tension in our house.  I wouldn't be surprised - most of my parents' arguments are about me, and whatever I did that day that pissed off the other.  

They never seem to notice the stack of college brochures that come daily in the mail - but instead call me lazy for leaving them on the kitchen table. 

They never really see my grades, or even know what classes I'm taking - but say I'm lazy for getting a B in Honors Chemistry and why not an A?

I am lazy for not taking the time to clean my room every night when I come home late from a choir conert, from rehearsal, from a study session.  I am lazy because I do not take an hour and a half to get ready in the morning when I am already leaving at 5:30 for drill practice four mornings a week. 

I'm lazy for not always having the energy to make myself invisible after returning from 4 hour rehearsals and long nights spent at the library writing paper after paper; writing equation after equationon the tiny square inched-off lines in my graphing notebook.

I'm lazy for having a life that leaves me too tired to care about the milk bowl on my desk or the sock on the floor.