I got a new desk because my old one broke from me banging my head against it. That makes three this year. Three desks, not three heads.
My head's holding out fine. I could probably hammer out another couple of columns before a doctor has to fish out a pen light and check if my pupils are the same size. The desks are the issue.
They have to be. I follow the assembly instructions to the letter. I put the screwy pieces into the screwy holes and slot the square pieces into the square holes and chuck the triangular pieces wherever they need to be chucked.
They're in a box in the basement. That's where I keep the rest of the bits and bobs that I don't need. Until, of course, I need one.
Then I go down to the basement, find the box, rummage for the piece I want, try to jam it into a trapezoidal hole (who designs these things?) and end up buying a new desk. They keep giving out on me. I've had longer working relationships with gnats.
Well, last week I got fed up with being irritated. Or maybe it's the other way around. And I bought a metal-reinforced desk.
This bad boy better be the bomb, because it sure blew a hole in my wallet. Today it arrived. I opened the box and took a peek.
As an experienced builder, I immediately spied that there were many desky-looking parts inside. There was also an instruction manual that was about 27 pages long. None of them were in English.
This did not daunt me. As I have often mentioned, I can be chilled steel, except for when I'm nervous. With a screw.