I am being persecuted

I don't wish to involve anyone (least of all, the ragged few readers I have) in a domestic squabble but Faye is demanding that I clean up my computer desk. Something about it being a mess. I don't quite grasp the meaning of that term, "mess", but I am told it means "a: disordered, untidy, offensive, or unpleasant state or condition b : one that is disordered, untidy, offensive, or unpleasant usually because of blundering, laxity, or misconduct."

I am a tad offended. After all, it is my desk. Am I not allowed a little liberty in my own space? Am I not allowed to have my own space?

I resent the implication that I am disorganized. Everything is there, on the desk, in the cubbyholes, or behind the doors. And I do mean everything. When asked if I have this paper or that item, I can honestly reply that "it is somewhere on my desk." Unless, of course, Faye has filed it away somewhere under some mystifying (to me) category in the file drawers that sit between our desks. I will grant that her filing is pretty close to alphabetical but I am unsure why there is a folder labeled "Chevy" when I haven't owned one since 2006.

"Ha!"


Ok, maybe it is a little dusty...