A Letter to B.B.

Hey B.B.,

In the original office at the bottom of the hill, I lined random junk on the ledge by my desk with Pittsburgh memories. A box of salt and corn nuts from a punk band playing in a basement in Oakland. A small rock, stolen from my boss’ desk at my first shitty job after college. A handwritten card from Danielle’s kid. A toy pegasus, but also a unicorn. No clue where that one came from.

Then we moved into the office at the top of the hill. I really wanted my own space. I’d never had an office and it sounded so nice to get away from everyone; a little quiet for once, I told myself.

I built myself a nest. A dark, lightless nest of an office with no desk-space and decreasing number of knick knacks. First they didn’t fit on my desk, then in my drawers, and then I started passing them out to everyone in the office to get them out of my life.

I had so much space in my nest, but no space for myself. It wasn’t long before I got the MacBook, packed up, and moved away.

I hope you still like your knick-knacks,


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