Recently, before I was hammered mercilessly by the flu, I invested fifty dollars at a second-hand store and bought this roll-top desk. I've always wanted a "secretary desk," as they are sometimes called, but could never afford it, and even the fifty dollars was rather a splurge. But I cannot express how much I love this desk, despite the fact that it needs new drawer hardware and has scratches and nicks all over. It's already re-organized my life in necessary ways, and I find the process of paying bills quite effortless now.
I am apparently a woman of simple needs--this desk cheers me considerably, even in my current listless state. What is a writer, really, without a desk?