In the tradition of keeping it real:
This is what my messy, cluttered corner of the world looks like about 98% of the time. Let this be said, though: I am not a hoarder. I have absolutely no problem throwing things out or giving stuff away or just striking a match to the whole blessed mess. However, I live in a trailer that's roughly the size of a stick of gum. The couch acts as my boudoir because there's simply not enough closet and drawer space in the bedroom. Also, I've always been a slob. I'm like a turtle, my mess will extend to the amount of space I'm allowed. Whatever size shell I've got, that's how big I'll grow. I like pretty things. I like brightly colored, oddly patterned, lovely-ugly things. You just have to look beneath the books and the jeans and the scarves to find them. And I like for my life to be clean. I don't want anything to smell funny or be sticky or nasty. But by god I'll guaran-damn-tee you there are 14 mis-matched socks somewhere in that couch mess. And they're all freshly laundered.
John's corner of the world is ironed and hanging neatly on his side of the closet. His cables and jacks and remote controls are all lined up in ascending order and his toothbrush faces due North at all times. You'd think he was an ex-Marine, as regimented and organized as he is. Actually, he was in court mandated rehab for nearly two years. He says it was a sort of military/prison experience. It left it's mark and served it's purpose. That's for certain.
Oddly enough, of all the things John and I argue over, my messiness is never one of them. I believe he finds it endearing. Plus, I vacuum like three times a day, so he knows enough to just keep his OCD opinions to himself.