One time my mom tried to send me to my room for a time-out when I was 5 or 6, and I was like, "Fine! I like my room! All my imagination and toys are in my room!" I will never forget that. And she will never forget that.
We didn't have a TV in the living room and all my friends thought we were kind of weird. When they'd come over, my mom wanted to talk to them about current events.
It's pretty easy to hear what people are physically responding to versus what's just flat as a pancake in the room when it comes to jokes.
A great acacia, with its slender trunk And overpoise of multitudinous leaves. (In which a hundred fields might spill their dew And intense verdure, yet find room enough) Stood reconciling all the place with green.
Where Christ brings His cross He brings His presence; and where He is none are desolate, and there is no room for despair.
Any problem can be solved using the materials in the room.
The biggest fatal flaw in most fictional portrayals of nanotech - what sends those books arcing across the room - is ignoring that the nanobots need energy to do... anything.
If I'm lucky, when I paint, first my patrons leave the room, then my dealers, and if I'm really lucky I leave too.
My father was a general manager with Hyatt, so we lived in the hotel so he would be close by if there were any problems. My mum was always adamant about us not abusing it. So I still had to clean my room. Housekeeping would never come and do it.
When you get into a hotel room, you lock the door, and you know there is a secrecy, there is a luxury, there is fantasy. There is comfort. There is reassurance.