My room

You might think it an exaggeration for me to compare my room to a rat infested cellar beneath the most dingy of Parisian bistros, but I surely do envy the rats for the rotten food they indulge to feast upon. You might think I am serving my keepers the greatest disservice when I speak of them with such insolence as I am about to: but I really do despise their tyrannous reign over the place, and I can honestly say that their bitter disrespect continues to nullify any positive attachments to the room. You might find me ungrateful in my telling of how I yearn to sleep in the unkempt and guilt-ridden bed of a gigolo; because it at least comes with a heart-shaped pillow - albeit complete with complimentary white stains - when faced with the prospect of another night on this bed I keep.

You might be shocked to hear that I do not dispute the legitimacy of my residence in this prison cell, for I truly do regret stabbing that cunt in the fruit section of Aldi, because there are no CCTV cameras in the adjacent toiletries aisle.