temerarious me

See, I keep knocking things into the wastebasket betwixt the matching wood desk and dresser in my Aunt Redacted’s childhood bedroom. These knocked over things, they’re my things—the pens, the keys, the stapler, the bibelots and baubles that tend to clutter one’s desk. The wastebasket, too, that’s my wastebasket—a metal Chicago Bears wastebasket. Other than being cluttered, it’s kinda neat, this desk. It literally fits into the corner of the room. It would neatly fit into a 90 degree corner of any ordinary bedroom. Suffice it to say, this desk, my Aunt Redacted’s childhood desk, now my desk (for all intents and purposes), its surface is more triangular than rectangular. To be clear, it’s a small room, but still, in and of itself, fairly rectangular. Regardless, things keep falling through the space betwixt the desk and the matching wood dresser, falling into the wastebasket, or rather landing in the wastebasket, because I keep knocking them over into it. So what do I do? I move the wastebasket. I move it beneath the desk—or, rather, fully beneath it. See, it was previously somewhat beneath it, but I’ve just now decided to do this—relocate it beneath the desktop completely—after months, years, decades, centuries, and/or eons, of knocking things over and into. It’s how God came up with life, I’d bet. The Almighty just knocked over some shit. You know, like getting your peanut butter on my chocolate, or getting my chocolate on your peanut butter. Only now there’s less room for my feet. That is, my feet and my legs. That is, less room beneath this desk. And that must be why I’ve left the wastebasket where it was for these many months, years, decades, centuries, and/or eons. And here we arrive at the real error of my ways. Since the gap betwixt the wood desk and its matching dresser no longer served a purpose, I went ahead and yanked the dresser closer to the desk. That is, to close the gap. A hasty move, to say the least. See, in the act of yanking the dresser, I caused one of its short wood legs to crack and buckle somewhat. As you might expect, I cursed. Then, after I cursed, I descended onto all fours upon the carpeted floor for a closer inspection of my handiwork. I straightened the leg and, to this day, it continues to bear the weight it was designed to carry. Even so, if I ever again try to nudge the dresser in any direction—even by a millimeter—that leg’ll very likely snap clean off. Thus, the gap remains. 

7 April 2007