Furnish Me

My computer desk is to good furniture as those Cuban refugee boats are to seaworthy crafts. It's no fault of the desk maker, that's just what happens whenever I try to do something productive by myself. For a while, it was just kinda crappy looking, where someone'd sit something down on it and I'd joke, "Oh, be easy or the desk will fall apart! Ha ha, it's rickety because I don't understand how to use a screwdriver!" We'd laugh into the night at that one. Over the course of the past few months, the desk has deteriorated rapidly to the point where it is now, in all honesty, a death trap. In fact, the desk is so dangerous, whenever I hear someone driving through the parking lot of my complex, I have to run outside and yell, "Please don't come any closer, or else you'll knock my desk over, thus spilling my cup of pens and, quite possibly, killing us both in the process." Let me tell you, it's not easy to run outside and spit all of that out during the 3 seconds the car is within shouting distance.

Every night this week, I've managed to knock the desk down without doing anything. Well, that's not exactly accurate. The first time it broke, I had gotten a little out of control with my nightly nude calisthenics and was knocking crap all over the place. That, my friends, is the dark side of pilates. But the other two times, I merely sat there like a little gentleman, type type typin' away, only to witness the structure of particle board burst into flames and crumble to my feet. Perhaps it's due to poltergeists, or maybe some voodoo priestess has cursed all of my office equipment (this one makes extra sense since my shredder spits blood at me everytime I try to use it). Whatever it is, someone needs to fix it. Who will answer the call? Not me. My caveman method of propping it up with a cardboard box no longer works. Not Octopussy, who seemingly lives to see all of my possessions reduced to ruins, and probably takes secret delight every time the desk falls apart. The only person I can think of, surprise surprise, is Santa Claus. So, if a representative of Mr. Claus happens to read this, let the big guy know that I'd like a new desk for Christmas. Preferrably, this new desk will be made of sturdy wood, not hundreds of toothpicks glued together with mucus, as I suspect is the case with my current desk.

Funny enough, the other piece of rickety, poop-laden furniture in my aparment is my nightstand, which I also put together by myself. Maybe someone can straighten me out here: you're supposed to be able to pull out a drawer more than 3 inches, right? Those instructions had to be defective. I'm almost 50% certain that I put that thing together correctly, yet if I so much as breathe on nightstand, the drawer flies out and dumps my Troll dolls all over the place. I'm getting awfully close to giving up on furniture entirely and just putting all of my stuff on the ground, like some sort of worm man. The egg will be on your face then, furniture industry, not mine.