Having broken another perfectly good pair of glasses falling asleep working, in bed, lying down (who would’ve guessed?), I finally got off my arse to clear out my desk so that I don’t keep working in bed—barring temptation to.

Now that work seems to enjoy following me home (as opposed to days of yore when it said, idly, “Go home…Come see me tomorrow”), more pairs are at stake if working in bed continues.

Since I haven’t worked at my desk since before college (having spent many a study day in the school canteen with friends or—ironically—in bed, as well) I uncovered a surprising trove of emo poetry, scattered about in loose sheets of paper, from napkins to leaflets, large receipts to more than one airline barf bag turned inside out.

Who knew I was an emo kid? Granted most of us spent fairly self-indulgent days in our teens, this is just depressing.

Somehow, I didn’t read any of them. I’ll leave that chest unopened for now, filed away in the recesses of my memory—and another room.