If the things I keep around me really do reflect my deep dark self, you would have to say I was random, messy, and often in need of repair.
If you squint hard enough, use enough imagination, and focus only on a few small corners, there are happy splashes of colour strewn (randomly, messily) about the place as well.
I guess we see what we want to see.
I'm giving myself another semester off study, and whether I will return, and to do what, I don't know. I am good at psychology (who knew this English major could kick butt at statistics?), it's being any kind of psychologist I have grave doubts about. It takes someone a great deal more sure of themselves than I think I could ever be. I used to be ashamed of that, but now I think there are interesting stories in the messy, the random, the broken. And it's always been about the stories.