I wasn’t lying.
Previously, I had been sitting on a couch–perched, hunched–with the laptop on the table in front of me, teetering atop two stacks of hardcovers; now I have a desk, and it has a dick on it. I sit upright, like a big boy, and think my big boy thoughts and write my big boy words, because I have a desk now, even though there is a dick on it.
Maybe I can be a political writer, now that I have a desk, even though it has a dick on it, and write columns about something a cab driver told me, or something else I saw on TV. Maybe I could be a Russian hacker with my desk, the one with dick on it, and run rampant through the American election while none of the political writers write about it. Maybe I should write prestige television, something about technology and Muslim-Americans, on my desk, which has a dick on it.
There is a drawer I have not opened yet, and I believe it contains a Pokemon.