Get a load of this: I’m not allowed to sleep under my desk.

I asked my supervisor today if she had ever read The Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. She said she had, and that she very much enjoyed the book.

A little side note here: I haven’t read the book myself, technically, but only because I’m not really a reader. I’ve had it read to me, however. It’s amazing what that guy at the suicide prevention hotline will do if you pretend to cry.

Anyway, she said she enjoyed the book. I asked her, then, what she thought of the concept: camping out in a museum. She said she loved the idea, and as a kid had always thought that would be a wonderful thing to do.

I’m inclined to agree, and I told her so. I told her that even if you didn’t like going to museums, or if all the local museums had photographs of you taped up by the doors, it would still be pretty fun to try the concept out at your place of business, wherever that might be. I said you could just sleep under your desk like a little fort, and if they turned down the heat over night, you could shred trash and stuff your pants with it. When it was too warm for pants, you could have awesome, Risky Business-style solo dance parties. Also, you could shit in the drinking fountains, because, if you tape the handle down over night, even a reasonably large shit will wash away by the morning. Of course, when you do that, you have to get used to drinking out of the sink.

There’s a lot to consider, and I thought it was a fun topic of conversation. I wouldn’t have brought it up if I’d thought she was going to be such a killjoy, but I guess I shouldn’t have been totally surprised. (I try toreserve the term “totally surprised” for situations like getting bit by a shark while you’re in the tub, or catching the flu from a bat.) All she could come up with was that she didn’t want to find me sleeping under my desk anymore when she came in early. As if there’s a better spot.

So that’s out.

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