Clean.

With priorities messier than any typical teenage bedroom, we've created every parent's worst nightmare.

Open bottles permeate already catching air; all without defined boundaries are captives. Bruised eyes grasp for what little naivety their twice washed pockets can cough up. Fretting over handfuls turned to pocket lint with frantic searches for lost wallets and virtue turns to loaded laughing acceptance. This is a constant battle when I spend a few days without the makeshift comfort zone I make my camp in. From shellshocked to seasoned, introduce a leave of absence and I remember what it's like to function as a happy resident behind a clean white fence.

This isn't as boring as our generation likes to make it sound. This northern air is the only taste of intoxication I crave.