I do believe I have a serious problem, particularly pertaining to my desk(s). I simply cannot seem to keep them organized. I have a fairly decent system. Books go in a pile in the corner, pens go in that cup, other pens go in that other cup… more pens go in the other three cups. (I have a lot of pens.) I just can’t seem to maintain that system. It’s never a conscious rebellion; I just place something on my desk, and soon it’s invited all of its friends and relatives to the party. “Oh, hello Laser Pointer! I heard that we’re having a Hang Out on Chris’ Desk Party,” said the stapler to the laser pointer.
It’d be pretty awesome if my desk was somewhat sentient. I don’t want it to be completely so, but maybe just enough to the point that when I placed something out of place, it would rebel and knock it off or incinerate it or something. “RAWR! You do not belong here, shoelaces!” *fwoosh* And thus I had to buy new shoelaces… again.
Though, I suppose that could be a problem. If my desk were intelligent enough to distinguish between acceptable objects and not, then I might have larger problems on my hands than just untidiness. The Night of the Living Desks. Also, desk civil rights?
But seriously, I’m not sure that I’ll ever really solve this problem. I think it might be genetic. Somewhere in the Human Genome Sequence is a thread for tendencies towards having untidy desks. I’m sure all the important scientists are working on the problem now. Right? Of course right!
And now for something completely different.
I feel that I have neglected Pop Tarts for far too long now. My heart has yearned to write of them, and my taste buds have longed for the sensations of their delightfulfullness and magnificence. My toaster has sat waiting patiently, yet mournfully. My cabinets, though by no means empty, have long looked as though they’re missing some vital component. These very words pain me to write, yet I feel that I must. Maybe I’ll pick some up at Walmart today…
Bye for now!
“‘Tis a pity,” said the mongoose to the wildcat, when he arrived back in the palace. “It seems I have misplaced my footwear in the garden.” “What a shame!” replied the wildcat, “I always did believe in ghosts.” The aardvark in the corner was a much better guest, but that was in the olden days. Now the lore is much more subdued.
Whilst the trio of crazies were fancifully fulfilling the roles of each in their own way, the trains rolled on through the night. The owls flew overhead and the mice all cheered for the moon. “To be in this state,” thought the bear to himself, “must be an odd feeling for a moose.” The trap thought the same, although much more subdued, for when did the iron ever think on its own? On through the evening, the great horses ran. The steam off them rolling, the coal burning through. “Oh, for a daisy!” cried the great blue lagoon, and the fish all swam in a pool.
“To go to school! That is our goal,” exclaimed the one with the beard and the shovel. They all soon agreed, and off they traversed, to see why the cows all cried “Moo!” For the cats in the cradle, this is not strange: to see all these odd things in play. For when does it happen, that all this is written, and where does the drunk priest pray?
These were the thoughts that ran through his head, as he sat at the base of the tree. A bit too much ale and a tad too much bagel, this is what ruined his day. So, let this be a lesson to those who are wary, to never go out for a stroll. When the moon is all purple, and the parrots are crying, and the whimsical take up a pen. Woe to the man who makes sense of this. His brain soon might take leave of him.
With that, I bid you good night.