Man, my desk is a mess.
I mean, it's always a mess, at least to the untrained observer's eye -- but I've really outdone myself this time. It's a fricking zoo. It's loony. It's in a state of advanced higgledy-piggledy, even. There are notes, and CDs, and pens, and coasters, and printer manuals, and notebooks, and loose papers, and all sorts of other shit, too.
(Well, not shit, of course. There's no actual shit on my desk.
Although, if the dog were just a leeetle bit taller, there very well could be shit on it. Piss, at the very least. I swear, at one point or another, that dog has peed on every flat surface under four feet tall in the house. She's a machine.
And if you think that sounds gross to you to hear about it, imagine how I feel. I used to eat off the kitchen counters. Now, not so much. Ew.)
It's actually not just that stuff is piled all over my desk, really. That's part of the system I have. See, I like to think I manage my desk the way nature designed humans -- I put the fun, shiny, important stuff that I want to see and touch and play with often right up front, where I can get at it. And the stuff that I really don't need to deal with, except in an emergency of some kind, I hide way back in the back.
And, naturally, there are a lot of things I like to touch and play with and rub against my naked body, so -- wait, scratch that last one; you never heard that. Stop the music. Do over.
Ahem. As I was saying:
And, naturally, there are a lot of things I like to touch and play with and... stuff, so I have to pile some things on top of other things to make it all fit. I call that my 'system'. Some people call it 'piling'. I don't like those people. They wouldn't know a 'system' if it snuck up behind them and rubbed itself all over their naked bodies. Losers.
Anyway, piles are okay. But right now, I've got piles of piles. And some of the piles seem to have fallen over, resulting in... well, I don't know what, exactly. Heaps, maybe? Mounds? An enormous clusterfuck? Something like that, I'm sure.
It really is impressive, seeing how much shit my desk has collected. I'd like to take a picture, even, so I could show you -- but I can't. The camera is on the desk, you see, so who the hell knows where it is. Buried under empty CD jewel cases and pay stubs from three years ago, no doubt. And probably sitting next to the wallet I misplaced when we moved. And Jimmy Hoffa. And a winning lottery ticket, now expired. 'Cause isn't that always the way?
Anyway, it's getting late, so maybe I'd better try cleaning some of this shit off before bedtime. If these piles were to tip over during the night, the avalanche would break right through the floor, all the way to the basement. And not only would I have to patch the holes, I'd also have to lug all that crap back up here and find somewhere else to put it. In a pile, somewhere, of course. That's what I do.
But for now, I'll transplant a few of those piles to another spot. Like my wife's desk. Just look at it, over there, pristine and clean. Not a proper desk at all, if you ask me. One pen and a paper clip -- what the hell kind of desk clutter is that. Hell, you can't even pile that shit together. Not really. So maybe I'll throw some of this junk over there, and see what happens.
Sometimes, when I put my shit on her desk, it gets magically put away where it belongs, which is cool. Other times, I find it in the wastebasket, in with the shredded bills and orange peels, and then I have to drag it out and pile it somewhere else for a while. But it smells nice and citrusy then, so really, that's okay, too. And either way, it makes my desk look better in comparison. And that's what it's all about, baby.