Today is a day of cleaning and budgeting, a time to straighten out the clutter on my desk and in my head. Because I feel no compulsion toward testing my job security, I also shan't test the fire sprinkler system in this new building. My sizeable forearms could perform a sweep, were it not for bordering cubicles that would inherit my junk. As part of this cube farm, I can't lift part of my station high enough to let gravity pull everything toward a trash can. Bummer.
Apparently, it's my destiny d'jour to look at each individual page and decide whether it should be filed, passed along to someone else, recycled or trashed. Which should mean four piles. Except mine ends up two: passed along or trashed. Technically, I could sidestep the middle man and assume the next person to read those things I pass forward will throw them out. Why not send them to the junk heap myself?
On one side of my station, I have a box of Kleenex. (Name brand, mind you, or else I'd call them tissues. Our copiers at the firm are actual Xerox machines. And my underwear is designed by Hanes.)
Someone has a job designing men's underwear.
I take that back. Many, many people have jobs designing men's underwear.
I bet they don't have messy desks.
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