There are those who celebrate their newfound freedom from parental units by snorting cocaine, skipping church or having unprotected sex while swearing and snorting cocaine in the bushes behind church. Then there are those of us who celebrate our independence in more subtle ways. Eating ice cream for dinner. Leaving the house in that. And — offspring of neat freaks, you’ll appreciate this one — not cleaning one’s room.

My name is Marianne. I have my own room, and don’t give a shit about cleanliness. This is my story.

It started small. An ever-expanding wardrobe met a finite closet, resulting in a small spray of clothes on the floor. A few papers were stacked up, a few annotated Post-It notes soared, a few burned CDs were flung. I won’t say who committed these small atrocities. It wasn’t me. I think it was the gnome that lives under my bed.

Then things escalated. A roll of wrapping paper and two pillows made their way under the desk —and they’re still there. The top of the coffee table-slash-storage unit disappeared under papers, folders, pens, receipts and a gigantic jewelry box. The sheets on the bed started resembling Twisty Bread. And the small spray of clothes turned into a mountain of cotton, rayon, nylon and other fabrics ending in –on.

And vacuuming? Dusting? Tidying up the flurries of papers? Please. My roommates are lucky if I close my bedroom door when I leave the house each day so they don’t have to catch glimpses of the explosive decor lingering in my abode.

Why my lack of care for my room’s neatness? The whole rebellion thing, of course, and the simple fact that it’s rare that anyone besides me goes in there. And when someone does, they’re either used to the mess or vulnerable to my excuses “(I don’t know why my room is so dirty! I think it was the cats!”). Things would change if I had a guy to impress or a set of parents who came down to visit me — but Mr. Right is MIA and my parents haven’t witnessed the remarkable synergy of my IKEA furnishings since I purchased them more than a year ago.

So why should I bother? The dust bunnies keep me warm at night, and as I used to exasperatedly tell my mother when I still lived at home, I know where everything is. Really. I know my checkbook is behind the lamp. I know my sewing kit is in one of these drawers somewhere, probably nesting with some blank CDs. And my textbooks? Yep, totally here. I swear I saw them the other day. My organization system may be unconventional, but it’s damn near flawless.

If there is a bigger issue here (which I doubt there is, but let’s humor ourselves), it is: I need a housekeeper. No, that’s not it. It is: I need a hot boyfriend with a wicked case of OCD and a lot of time on his hands.

No, no, no. The lesson is that it’s amazing how inept people can be. People Who Have It Together (which, yes, includes me). These are people with jobs and a 4.0 and toned calves. CEOs who can’t leave the house without misplacing their keys at least twice; loving mothers with terrible phone voices and messy table manners; chancellors of universities who don’t know, or care, what a decent haircut looks like.

But ya know? That’s all peachy (and really fun to poke fun at). We can’t all be perfect. In my case, if I appear somewhat competent at any point in time, it’s a downright miracle.

I declare: It’s time we reasserted our right to not give a shit about being good at certain things. To really suck in certain areas. To fight for one’s right to climb over a three-foot pile of clothes every morning. And if you can kill two birds with one stone by disguising, or interpreting, Texas-sized ineptitude as rebellion — sweet, valorous rebellion! — bless you, child.

Even the most solicitous overachiever simply cannot care about, or excel at, everything. Nor should they. Seriously, I tried, and I failed miserably. “Caring about getting rip-roaring drunk” collided with “Excelling at school.” Then, the next morning, “Excelling at looking fashionable and put-together” conflicted with “Being good at throwing up all over myself,” with ugly, smelly, chunky results. And it forced me to be great at running home and changing outfits, when frankly I’m more gifted at finding the nearest comfy chair and drooling all over myself when I fall asleep in it.

I’m not sure where this is going, but I’m sure that you understood whatever point I was trying to make. I just know my room is dirty, my shirt is crusted with vomit and drool, and I don’t care.