Wednesday, July 8, 2015

     So my daughter bought me this book called 642 Things To Write About. Although 538 were not of interest, I ended up with some real doozies for y’all. These writing prompts will appeal to the writer depending on her frame of mind. (I heard there are some male writers too, but they are probably watching porn or sports right now, so they don’t count.)

     Today’s prompt reads:  What your desk thinks about at night. What moron came up with that question? Better yet, what idiot would go to the trouble of answering it. You guessed it.

    Desk:  Wow, what a relief. The bitch has been on me all day writing, writing, writing all the while leaning on my front to the point where my patina is kaput (kah/put).  She won’t leave me alone. Just when I think she’s gone downstairs to do whatever she does down there, back she comes. The laptop has been weighing on my head for so long, I have a permanent flat-top. Imagine sitting in a large sun-soaked room with a three-pound apple on your head. 

     The good news is that she doesn’t snort, fart, tap her foot, whistle, sing or sneeze, so I stay relatively clean. She’s a neat freak so there is little else on top of me other than a ten-pound reading lamp and a 23.4 pound printer. They seem to balance each other out, so at least, I’m not lopsided. 

     She doesn’t drink or eat on me, so that’s good, but she does sometimes pile books on me for short periods of time. It feels so good when she puts them away. I haven’t seen her read any of them. Funny.

    There is a window above my head that lets sunlight in. Some days, this is good; others, I am so hot, you could fry eggs on me. Sometimes, though, I must tell you she gets into my drawers. Yup. She does. I know she wouldn’t want this to get out, but it’s the truth, and I’m a very honest desk. She sticks things in them, and she rummages around sometimes. She has no idea how this makes me feel, and I will spare you the details. Suffice it to say that desks deserve privacy as well as writers. Imagine someone storing sharp objects like scissors and rulers in your drawers? Really.

     On the rare occasions she dusts me, I can hardly stand it. It tickles so badly. I giggle, but she has her head phones on so she can’t hear. For some reason, she talks out loud while she’s listening. There are spaces in between her words, and occasionally, she’ll make Italian gestures. I think they’re going to Italy or something. Either that, or she has finally lost it. 

     There is also a stone heart on top of me. Some former lover of hers found it on a beach, and it sits on my shoulder. I don’t like the heart on. 

     Oh,no. Here she comes. She has that “I’m-on-a-mission” look. OWW! What was that about?