It’s been 138 days.
He’s done a piece of writing for the last 138 days and how many times has he used me to do it? Not once!
He’s considered it. Thought perhaps he might use the desk but no! That slutty table in the conservatory gets all the action, when he even decides to use a table. Most of the time, that damn laptop gets perched on the arm of a chair, or overheats on the bed. When he’s got me, a perfectly serviceable desk tucked away in a different room.
I know, I know. It’s difficult. I’m just a bit plain, a bit boring. But, with a lick of paint I could be a star! I just know that I could help him write the next great novel, if only he’d let me.
Instead, here I am. I’d say gathering dust, but that lady is crazy with the cleaning. So, I’m even ready to go, just put a coaster on me for that cup of writer’s coffee and let the words flow.
Paint some inspirational quotes on me! I don’t care. Deface me and debase me, but let me be used for my purpose.
What is a desk when it’s not in use? A sodding disgrace. Thirteen different trees go into making me (Don’t judge, I’m only from Ikea) and all of them, their sacrifice, their lives. Ignored! I bet my brothers and sisters in other houses get used, not just covered in crap. Tax letters were placed on me the other day.
That’s right, not even your desk likes tax letters. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it! Just, not around me. I’m made of wood and am liable to burn.
Just please. I’m begging you. Let me be used for writing. Cover me in coffee rings, loose pages of indiscriminate notes. I don’t care.
I just want to be useful. Isn’t that what we all want?
I want it on the record that I don’t currently have a desk. I have the other available options mentioned in the piece, but a desk probably wouldn’t fit. I have got a lot of crap kicking around…
I imagine my desk would be like me, wanting to get things done but in an extremely scatterbrained way. What does your desk think about? Or worse, what does it say about you?
The Idiot in Tin Foil