I'm a pretty weird guy, but my house doesn't reflect it.
Maybe it's because I'm a military kid, so I always have one foot out the door. I've moved every year for 5 years. This is actually the first year that I just stayed put. (Not that I have a deep love of my current apartment, I'm just tired of moving so it wasn't worth it)
I've kind of just lived out of a suitcase for a while. That's kind of why my house reflects that of the blandest human you've ever met.
My house could be described as a place where a guy named Larry would come home from his cubicle to a hot, fresh Lean Cuisine waiting for him every night. "Apartment Yellow" walls, old carpet, an $8 Target lamp, and nothing on the walls other than a Dilbert calendar that gives Larry a little chuckle once a month.
Out of the 1,825+ photos I've taken over the past five years, zero of them have hung on my walls. More of my photos have ended up on my mom's, grandparents', and in-laws' wall than mine.
I suppose it could laziness, a lack of commitment, indecision, or rebellion against the carefully curated "white wall" hipster lifestyle.
Whatever I've been suffering from, I've gotten over it and have entered an obsessive frenzy of making my apartment great again. Pics and video (obvi) coming soon when I finish climbing to the peak of this personal Everest.
(Let's just say I'm going to make a polaroid wall. It's going to be the best polaroid wall you've ever seen, and YOU'RE going to pay for it!)