I sit, staring at the plain white wall. It's been a typical hot and sweaty Texas day, so now I'm sprawled on my bed with wet skin and hair steaming from the shower, my ceiling fan scooping up my moisture and spreading it around the room. My bed and my wall are exactly alike, staring at each other with their clean, white, blandness. No images or frames, no decorative pillows. Just a blank facade in front of me and beneath me, waiting to be marked, begging to remain pure and simple and boring. I've left it that way for a while. There were girlfriends, somewhere back there in the past, in and out of this room like night terrors. Some were loud, marching in and putting up artistic paintings that read like protests to the simple boredom of my life. They were bold, offensive images that made it hard for me to sleep - confronting me, making me feel broken and confused. Some girlfriends put up quieter images with blue-tones, complimenting my attitude but somehow even more bor...