What's in your "Room 101"?

[Skald_the_Rhymer]

Probably ravenous dogs.

[figure9]

MsWhatsit I googled “Lotus boob” I am now looking for an endless shaft to jump down. 1/2 day later and just thinking about it makes my stomach queasy!

[lynne-42]

Nothing.

An absolutely empty silent room.

[Qin_Shi_Huangdi]

Man-eating flowers.

[Ephemera]

@MsWhatsit

A real-life lotus boob. Just Google it if you don’t know. I can’t even look at the Google results without wanting to fling my laptop across the room.

I googled Surinam Toad to make sure I had the name right for my own post, and had the same reaction. It’s pretty much a real life lotus boob, except it’s a toad.

[msmith537]

@Koxinga

I’m really kind of wondering if some folks here get what “Room 101” is about. It’s the room where you would betray the one you love the most, ask the tormentors to put her in your place, just so you can get away from it. And supposedly, you’d have no choice but to do so, since the horror of Room 101 is so deep and instinctive that you’d reflexively thrust your child or spouse into it just so you don’t have to.

No, I think it’s just a lot of people here are pussies.
Ironically, my girlfriend might tell you that a spouse and child IS my Room 101.

[Trepa_Mayfield]

The sound of: a large crowd, aimlessly waiting for the show to start. A warm-up act who is trying too hard to draw attention to himself. A loud, boorish man chanting to his disciples. A trio of girls giggling fiercely. An older couple hooting away. A circle of kids engrossed in a TCG. A family, singing and playing banjos, for some reason. A dude who brought his boombox and aims to compete with the warm-up act. A gazillion gnats. Rain on the roof. Large men and women galumphing across the catwalks above. Two drunken hobos fighting. A shrill harpy on a cell phone. A buisnessman on a bluetooth. The recipients of both those phonecalls, heard through the tinny speakers. Bongo drums, emanating from somewhere in the back. Protesters, ringing the stadium and chanting moronic slogans. Two older gentlemen chatting away, oblivious to the outside world. A gay guy loudly trying and failing to hook up with every guy in the stadium. Tailgaters that appear to have gotten the wrong address, all chewing and burping and crackling their grill. A girl, alone, reading her book and sighing. The sond of feedback from half-constructed audio setups. Construction from the skyscraper across the street. Some woman loudly gushing about the band that’s supposed to play. Two lovers, making out. Actually, make that 200. Not all pairs. Some farther along than others. A reserved gentlemen repeatedly asking them to please stop. His wife, repeatedly sniffing at their crass behavior. 37,918 children, either laughing, playing, shouting, talking, crying, or shrieking. And a helicoptor, passing way way too low for no good reason. All coming from a state-of-the-art surround sound system, playing at a perfectly normal volume setting, such that it’s almost like you’re there, man. But no visuals, no smells, no sensory elements other than the casual chaos, the unthinkably cacophonous sounds.

[torie]

It would be wallpapered with composite sketches and there would be roaches. Ugh.

[Koxinga]

@pedescribe

The sound of: a large crowd, aimlessly waiting for the show to start. A warm-up act who is trying too hard to draw attention to himself. A loud, boorish man chanting to his disciples. A trio of girls giggling fiercely. An older couple hooting away. A circle of kids engrossed in a TCG. A family, singing and playing banjos, for some reason. A dude who brought his boombox and aims to compete with the warm-up act. A gazillion gnats. Rain on the roof. Large men and women galumphing across the catwalks above. Two drunken hobos fighting. A shrill harpy on a cell phone. A buisnessman on a bluetooth. The recipients of both those phonecalls, heard through the tinny speakers. Bongo drums, emanating from somewhere in the back. Protesters, ringing the stadium and chanting moronic slogans. Two older gentlemen chatting away, oblivious to the outside world. A gay guy loudly trying and failing to hook up with every guy in the stadium. Tailgaters that appear to have gotten the wrong address, all chewing and burping and crackling their grill. A girl, alone, reading her book and sighing. The sond of feedback from half-constructed audio setups. Construction from the skyscraper across the street. Some woman loudly gushing about the band that’s supposed to play. Two lovers, making out. Actually, make that 200. Not all pairs. Some farther along than others. A reserved gentlemen repeatedly asking them to please stop. His wife, repeatedly sniffing at their crass behavior. 37,918 children, either laughing, playing, shouting, talking, crying, or shrieking. And a helicoptor, passing way way too low for no good reason. All coming from a state-of-the-art surround sound system, playing at a perfectly normal volume setting, such that it’s almost like you’re there, man. But no visuals, no smells, no sensory elements other than the casual chaos, the unthinkably cacophonous sounds.

And one prim English gentleman repeating in a monotone: "Number nine . . . number nine . . . "

[msmith537]

@pedescribe

The sound of: a large crowd, aimlessly waiting for the show to start. A warm-up act who is trying too hard to draw attention to himself. A loud, boorish man chanting to his disciples. A trio of girls giggling fiercely. An older couple hooting away. A circle of kids engrossed in a TCG. A family, singing and playing banjos, for some reason. A dude who brought his boombox and aims to compete with the warm-up act. A gazillion gnats. Rain on the roof. Large men and women galumphing across the catwalks above. Two drunken hobos fighting. A shrill harpy on a cell phone. A buisnessman on a bluetooth. The recipients of both those phonecalls, heard through the tinny speakers. Bongo drums, emanating from somewhere in the back. Protesters, ringing the stadium and chanting moronic slogans. Two older gentlemen chatting away, oblivious to the outside world. A gay guy loudly trying and failing to hook up with every guy in the stadium. Tailgaters that appear to have gotten the wrong address, all chewing and burping and crackling their grill. A girl, alone, reading her book and sighing. The sond of feedback from half-constructed audio setups. Construction from the skyscraper across the street. Some woman loudly gushing about the band that’s supposed to play. Two lovers, making out. Actually, make that 200. Not all pairs. Some farther along than others. A reserved gentlemen repeatedly asking them to please stop. His wife, repeatedly sniffing at their crass behavior. 37,918 children, either laughing, playing, shouting, talking, crying, or shrieking. And a helicoptor, passing way way too low for no good reason. All coming from a state-of-the-art surround sound system, playing at a perfectly normal volume setting, such that it’s almost like you’re there, man. But no visuals, no smells, no sensory elements other than the casual chaos, the unthinkably cacophonous sounds.

soo…basically your Room 101 is the All Points West festival in Jersey City, NJ?

[Antigen]

Spiders. On me.

[Anaamika]

I don’t think it’s prudent to tell my Room 101 to a bunch of Dopers.

[Mr.Excellent]

Fire. Lots of fire.

BTW - supposedly, there was an East German Stasi chief with a decidedly warped sense of humor - a fan of Orwell’s work, he insisted that his own office be designated as Room 101. Cite: http://www.williamgibsonbooks.com/blog/2007_03_01_archive.asp#1502984950657049331

[Sunspace]

My nightmare involves mandatory cheese, smoking, and stupidity.

[Snickers]

@Anaamika

I don’t think it’s prudent to tell my Room 101 to a bunch of Dopers.

Why not? Will penis ensue? I kid because I love.

My room would have spiders. Eeesh.

[Anaamika]

Honestly, I don’t know what my Room 101 is. Something so dark and scary that I would push my love in front of me? Sure, I’m afraid of maggots, and of centipedes, but I have dealt with both when I had to. I certainly feel my hair raising on end when I see one, but unreasoning terror? Not sure about that one.

Acid maybe, since I have seen and heard too many stories of women being burned by it. Or repeated, savage rape, maybe - another terror.

But I probably won’t know until it happens. Maybe I got stung by a bee when I was 7 months old, and my subconscious has never forgotten the terror of it. Who knows?

[Velma]

I can think of lots of things that I am afraid of, but nothing that could make me put my child in my place. I am not saying I could withstand horror/torture without giving up secrets or going crazy or whatever, but I would rather die than know my own child is being tortured because of me.

[msmith537]

@Velma

I can think of lots of things that I am afraid of, but nothing that could make me put my child in my place. I am not saying I could withstand horror/torture without giving up secrets or going crazy or whatever, but I would rather die than know my own child is being tortured because of me.

What if giving up your child for torture is your Room 101? Does your head explode with irony?

[HotSmoke]

Clowns. I HATE clowns.

[Velma]

@msmith537

What if giving up your child for torture is your Room 101? Does your head explode with irony?

Yes, then it does. So I guess if you put me in a room and then told me my kid was being tortured and showed me video of it, that would be my room 101. Although then I wouldn’t be able to give him up to take my place anyway, so…yes, then my head explodes, which is just as well.