My room is not clean. The only time it has ever been clean was when I had it as a Personal Progress goal. It is not clean anymore.
Normally I pretend this is the way I like it. "It might not look organized," I tell myself, "But if I can find what I want, who cares if no one else can? I don't want them in my room anyway."
This works right up until, ahem, I can't find what I want. Or when I notice the quarter inch thick layer of dust. Or the drifts of books, paper, and laundry. Or I stab myself on a drawer that refuses to close.
But now I have a new reason for why I never clean my room. For why things end up in such bizarre places.
From now on, when I lose something and find it in somewhere that makes no sense, I will hold my head up in pride and say "It was the lucky place to put it." And my parents will still mock me, but I'll feel better.