Hello. Welcome to What’s in my Drawer.
Those of you who previously frequented What’s in my Drawer (henceforth to be referred to as WimD) in one of its previous incarnations, will probably be querying the disarmingly polite and civil first sentence as being contrary to everything I hold sacred. ‘You are neither polite nor civil’ you will probably be thinking, ‘and everything that has the misfortune to fall within your field of view or experience will be judged as unworthy and subjected to ridicule and scorn not seen on western shores since George W. Bush appeared on America’s Got Talent with an act titled ‘Leader of the Free World’ which was based entirely around him dropping his trousers and trying to peel a banana with his buttocks’.
‘That’s as may be’ is something I’m likely to counter with, shortly before calling you something biologically horrific, possibly juxtaposing your attractiveness alongside that of a week dead badger, ‘But there are those in the world happily traversing the mortal coil, blissfully unaware that I exist, let alone that WimD has been loosed upon the internet like a rabid, squealing terrier. It would be remiss of me to simply launch into a rambling, venomous rant about why Paris Hilton should have her status as a human being revoked, the point or catalyst for which will be lost due to my notoriously bad grammar and the fact that I am inherently discursive without first explaining to those yet to be sullied by my grime encrusted point of view why WimD exists in the first place and what, if anything, its ridiculous title means. So, before I squeeze my bile filled bagpipes of fury and shower you all in my own putrescent, anger tinged point of view, let me explain a few things.
First of all, the title.
Way back in the mists of time, when men were men, women were women and I, by every description available at the time, was neither, I was employed by a large company to do a job that a monkey in a tinfoil hat could have done. I’d lied my way into the post, obviously (“As you can see on my CV, I’ve basically been doing this very job for the last 15 years. I know, it’s uncanny. It’s almost as though I broke into your office and went through your personnel files ……I didn’t though. What? Oh, these. These are my driving gloves….and my driving burglar mask…and that’s my steering crowbar.”), but it didn’t make the work any less simplistic.
It did, however, pay twice what I’d earned in my previous job. Which was nice.
For the project I was working on I was paired up with a guy who was that special kind of cock you don’t honestly believe exists in real-life. He considered anyone who didn’t have a university education to be a pointless human being and not worthy of his time. He was also vehemently of the opinion that to do the job we were doing a degree was not only necessary, but vital. ‘You just can’t do this job if you don’t have a degree’ he once said to me while we worked, ‘It’s about discipline. If you haven’t been to university, you simply won’t be able to understand the work. Where did you get yours?’. After I pointed out a problem with the formula he was trying to write, and corrected his grammar in an email he wanted to send to the directors, I told him I didn’t have one.
We didn’t talk much after that. I didn’t mind. His idea of riveting conversation was discussing the rave festivals he’d been to and, I swear this is true, the interesting conversations he’d had with the girls there. I did miss his descriptions of problems his parents experienced with their septic tank, his regular news updates on his involvement with the church choir and his weirdly specific idea of
the perfect woman (had to be blonde, had to be athletic (or at least not fat…or overweight… or chubby…or normally shaped), toned and fit (6-pack and everything), had to have a big chest and, above all else, had to have a degree (Masters, if possible). He also wanted her to enjoy going to church. Interestingly, he was single.), but not enough to strike up a conversation.
So, there I was; a tediously simplistic job that happened to pay double what I’d earned previously, and a co-worker with the personality of a small bag of mouldy stilton who was of the opinion that I shouldn’t be allowed to breathe the same air as him let alone do the same job.
I was bored.
To demonstrate my boredom I emailed my friends and relatives on a weekly basis and would describe the contents of my desk drawer to them…because it was infinitely more interesting than my day to day life. Wittily, I named this email ‘What’s in my Drawer’, because that’s just how fantastically humorous I am, and each week the email became less about the varied flotsam in my desk receptacles and more about the countless things that had irritated me to the point of near combustion that particular week. These emails would scoot right by common, and frankly pedestrian, annoyances such as traffic jams and bad weather, and allowed me to air my own petty grievances, such as the badly designed hooks on work boots that saw through the boot lace, or the point of mini-roundabouts.
Hence, the titular ‘drawer’ became a metaphor for my own head.
I know, trippy right?
But, let’s not get bogged down by flashy words and grammar so terrible it could have been copied verbatim from a self-published book by Wayne Rooney called ‘Why I is Good’. See, whilst it’s true that I’ve been emptying my spleen into the delicate workings of the internet for quite a while now (about 11yrs if memory serves), my audience until now has been limited. In the beginning it was an email only assault (much like a postal mugging) and later, though now on the internet proper, WimDs’ reach extended only as far as the subject matter of the site it was infecting.
Now, however, WimD has its own site. And it is to this very site I welcome you all.
I can’t, with any degree of accuracy or honesty, tell you how often it will be updated, or give you any indication of what topics I may cover. Mine is such a uniquely broken personality that anything, at any given point in time, could drive me to the brink of insanity then leap out of the still moving vehicle. It could be weeks before the next update, after which I may upload 18 pages of rambling, indecipherable non-sequiturs, the title of which might be something along the lines of ’10 Things I Hate About Plasticine’. Then again, I might decide that I’m more disciplined that I used to be and update this page every other day with something witty and cerebrally nourishing, but I wouldn’t hold your breath.
Oh yeah, I should also mention before I go that I swear…..a lot. I know that this introduction to WimD doesn’t have many swear words, and I don’t want you to leave here thinking that the next time you arrive you’ll be treated to the same kind of thing, because you really won’t. My everyday language is so bad, my tonsils look like angry Smurfs. And, I also don’t want to give people the
impression that I’m mature and sensible, because that would be exceptionally negligent on my part. It would also be a big fat lie and a bit shit.
So, with that in mind, let my final words on the matter be fuck, fuckitty fuck fuck fuck.
See you later.