Books here, papers and folders there and crumpled wrappers of candies everywhere. Hoy!

I need to get things in order for my table has remained messy for two days now. My boss, noticing this, since I’m situated as vanguard of the battalion of sloth from my rear, scolded me for having a garbage trash rather than an office table. She stared with her laser beams while murmuring of something ribald but I knew for sure that it wasn’t me per se but the loony look of my slab. If she gets easily catatonic over smidgen of dirt on the floor how much more would she feel toward piles of paper that look like garbage dump on my table? I was sure that when she got back and my table was still on its anti-cosmos state, a middle finger would surely be lifted on my face. I had no choice but…