I get a ton of junk email, like we all do. I have aggressive filtering, like most of us do. But something gets through every day, because reasons.

My personal favorites are the ones that address me as if I am, personally, Barnes & Noble. They frequently offer cleaning and reputational services (for me, Mr. Barnes & Noble), as well as something about putting Google Maps directly into my stores. Good stuff.

Today, something got through, and in those few preview words you can see without opening the email, I read the phrase “Million dollar bacon.”

So I said to Anne, “I mean, million dollar bacon sounds great. But who can afford that?”

“Someone who is living high on the hog,” she replied.

I haven’t had the spoons to write for a few weeks, but today, something was different, and I finished my breakfast with an ambitious, totally realistic plan to do a little work on Project Daffodil.

So I walk into my office, sit down, and realize that my desk is a clusterfuck of notes and magazines and stickers and … batteries? okay, batteries, I guess … and more than enough dust to complete the metaphor.

I stand up, and begin Unfucking my desk. It comes along nicely. I move the pile of New Yorkers I’m totally going to read to the top of the other pile of New Yorkers I’m totally going to read, careful not to disturb the pile of WIREDs I’m absolutely going to read.

I declare magazine bankruptcy; into the recycling they go.

Back to my desk. These sticky notes that fell off my monitor can enjoy their retirement catching up on the New Yorker. And I’ll just pick up this — what the? Okay, who even uses 9 volt batteries and why do I have one on my — oh, the smoke detector. Right. This should have gone into the trash when I put in a new battery on Daylight Saving Time. I glace around, furtively, Commander Hoek with his Beloved Ice Cream Bar. Real quick, before I toss it away, I taste it. Just to be sure.

Hm. These Gym Mats have very little battery zap in them. A surprisingly high number of 90s animation references, though. Into the bin.

I sort the stickers. Most will be added to project Cover This Box With Layer After Layer of Stickers. But one of them victoriously emerges from the rest, as a laptop contender. I place it on the desk where it will be … considered.

That’s when I get a closer look at the dust. I don’t know how thick a single layer of dust is, but this is enough to qualify for a blanket.

PRO TIP FROM UNCLE WIL: Iif you’re super lazy like me and hate dusting, you can put the air filter in your office to maximum, close the door, and use your compressed air thing to blast the dust off your desk, right into the air. The filter will suck it all out and you get to decide if you want that to be a dirty joke or not. This is not recommended for people with allergies. Wearing a mask while you do it is encouraged.

The dust settles. And now my work area is clean and orderly.

Well … except for that cable.

SOME TIME LATER

Fucking cables my god why does everything have to be so hard all I wanted was a Pepsi.

But the desk really does look great. In fact, I can feel the creative energy building around me and flowing…

…right into that stack of boxes in the corner, next to the bags of stuff I brought home from cons last year that I was going to sort through right after I got caught up on the New Yorker. It’s kind of pooling there, sloshing up on that Lego set I’ve been hoping to build since the 1900s.

Shit. Okay. I guess we’re doing this. Having unfucked the desk, I now turn my attention to unfucking the entire office.

I make three piles: recycle. trash. keep.

The keep pile is sorted into categories: Presidential Library, Art, Badges, Books, and so on. They will be put away in due time, but I linger on some of them: dice. drawings. notes from people who didn’t trust themselves to remember the words when they met me (I see you SO HARD, friends). And I remember how fun it was before Covid, how hard we’ve tried since Covid to make it fun again, and how much I’m sincerely excited to see my friends, castmates, and fellow nerds again in Austin next month.

I put the keepers away in their various proper places, handle the rest, and look around my freshly unfucked office. Now! I can get to work!

Into the chair. Okay, shake off the cobwebs, open xed and … oh. Wow.

Wow that’s … wow.

My keyboard is so dirty. Like, I need to write myself up for this. How did I not notice this before? Why is that key sticky? Is that cat fur? And is that … is that fucking barbecue sauce down there between the K and the L?

The keys come right off for easy cleaning. I have a little tool and everything.

Shit.

I’m not going to write a damn thing today, am I?