Dear Albion College Desk,
I am writing to inform you of your shittiness.
You are not the slightest bit ergonomic. Who were you designed for, anyway? People with short torsos, stubby arms, long necks and thin legs? There must have been a lot of those folks running around in 1400s, which is clearly when you were manufactured. I'm supposed to be young and lithe, but I feel like I have fibromyalgia after every class I take here. I don't learn in my lectures, I spend them instead squirming around and contemplating whether or not it would be inappropriate to get up and sit on the floor. Because of your unnecessary rigidity, I will soon be forced to tote the "sit-upon" I made at camp in second grade to each of my classes so that I may retain some feeling in my ass. I will forever be branded "Awkward Sit-Upon Girl" because I am fat and I have bad posture and YOU did not accommodate me, you axe wound.
Secondly, you provide the worst writing surface imaginable. Wow, I just accidentally etched "Look at his balls" onto my British Literature quiz. How charming. I'm glad I'm paying an arm and a leg to come to class and write my work on a mountain range of carved obscenities, Greek letters and poorly-drawn anime characters.
In conclusion, you are in serious need of some WD-40. Every time I move it sounds like the gates of hell are creaking open, and people turn and look at me as though my immense girth is threatening to shatter the floor.
You're ancient, ugly and uncomfortable, and I spend each hour I'm forced to sit in you conjuring up creative ways to destroy you and all your hellish counterparts.
Kindly get out of my life.
Thanks,
Emily C. Lawrence
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