My monitor is on my desk. It's hooked up to the docking station of my laptop. It eats crickets and vegetables, and is very friendly, if easily agitated. It has a very long tongue. Sometimes, it gets spooked out by the no-friction thing, or by the connecting cable.
There's also a wireless infrared trackball on my desk. It's thickly encrusted in sinister runes, and glows a baleful red. Touching it, I feel a kind of inner coldness that is unwholesome. Also, it kind of sticks.
There's a stack of papers next to the monitor. They contain the same word over and over again, in various fonts and formats, for over ninety pages. For the life of me, I can't remember what that word is, though, and I'm too lazy to check.
There's also a state senator, leaning against the corner of my desk. He's allergic to ants, and makes sure that everyone knows it.
There's no ants my desk - they keep slipping off.
The state senator is complaining.
There's two pencils, a Tragically Hip 8-track, and a postcard from Hong Kong on my tape. The monitor thinks they're interesting, but the state senator seems to find them scary.
There's a snowglobe on my desk. When you shake it up, then sit it down and watch it, it's pretty boring.
There's also a rotting pile of fish, the number twenty-one, and a cozy Parisian sidewalk cafe. Those are kind of toward the back, so they'll stay out of the way.
You, also, are on my desk. Well, not you. You're at your computer. A little wax doll of you, with a kind of cheesy sombrero and sunglasses. I hope you don't mind. If you're feeling a little bit embarassingly festive in the next few days, that's probably why.
There's an old Simon & Garfunkel song that stuck on my desk's mind, and it can't get it out. I don't know if that counts.