Madison Rose Rotman

Right now she’s slowly, methodically treading circles into her fluffy white rug, straightening and adjusting and tidying and perfecting her minimalistic, cozy room. The loose, creased, light wash of her denim jeans contrast beautifully with the black and cream aesthetic of the space and her 3 pound maltipoo puppy trots enthusiastically behind her, nipping at her heels. Ode to Viceroy plays at volume four.

It’s 3pm on Superbowl Sunday and she tells me about her plans to study for the ACT tonight. She waves around her arms as she talks. She gasps and I look up from the computer to hear her describing how nice her coffee table looks now that its clean and her clippings from design magazines are grouped just the right way.

She grabs the top rung of the ladder leading to her loft bed and lets herself hang. She hits the wall with cleaning and bounces into her other self. The self that just disappeared into her loft and is rolling around groaning and hysterically laughing. She comes down from the ladder and starts reorganizing again. When I ask her if she’s read one of the books she has her hands on she says “No I don’t read, I just stack books nicely.” She puffs her cheeks out and starts making weird animal noises. She clumsily pulls on her iCarly tshirt, gracefully slides into the splits and starts laughing again. The end

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