What can anything mean?

I have got this chance to write a story about my life.

My life, right now, is a messy room, with laundry and new clothes
thrown in every corner, a bag of hot chips on my desk, with
an old deodarant stick, thirteen dollars, an overflowing
trash can, a small blue and pink print, a drawing of
florence, a picture of a ballerina, blankets, lots of blankets
for lonely travelers, and my lonely limbs, quotes on the wall,
ones' i wrote, found, loved, or don't know how they got there.

i am sitting on my bed, there are four people waiting outside
my bedroom for me to come to a dueling piano bar somewhere
in cold, cold chicago. i am tired again. the week is on my elbows.
there are 11 youths in our basement, their leader told me they
are starting a movement, bringing different races together to
travel across the country. i gave them extra pillows. my roommate
is fliriting with my best friend who is soulfully playing the guitar,
and i hope to God tommorow I'll be able to prove to someone
that I am more than someone who's eaten too much in the
last four days.