Take a look around your work space. Chances are, most of the people around you have decorated their area in some format. Maybe they have pictures of their ugly kids or their dog-wife. Perhaps you work somewhere a little more liberal and there’s a nude photo of Hilary Clinton.

At the place I work, I see many of my coworkers use their desks to showcase a bit about their personalities. It’s a common practice. It’s something I don’t think I’ll ever do to its full effect.

You see, I’m shy. Maybe that’s not the best word. After all, I don’t always clothes the blinds when I walk around naked. I mean, after Breaking Bad went off the air, people are dying to see something they haven’t before. My job is to deliver.

I don’t open up, though. Befriending coworkers is the last thing on my list to do. It’s not that I hate the people I work with. I honestly don’t know much about them at all other than what I see displayed on their desks.

So what do they know about me?

They know I have a computer, enjoy calendars, and prefer a single blue pen.

Other than those factoids, I’m a mystery to them.

I’ve never decorated a desk at work. At my first job, people often shared desks. Have I ever mentioned how much I dislike people touching my things? More so, I hate touching other people’s things. As you can imagine, I’m not very affectionate, but at least I keep my hands to myself. This will save me from any sexual harassment lawsuits and keep my limbs intact on all amusement park rides.

My second job didn’t really have a place to decorate. For a brief time, I did display a piece of artwork made by Jenny Bee. I liked having it around. It was like having a piece of her with me as I got yelled at every day.

When I started the third job in my career muddling around on this planet, I never bothered to put anything up. Since there were apparently people working there who stole already pealed oranges and bags of brown sugar, I didn’t want to leave any personal items behind.

Now at my present employer, I was told to decorate my desk however I want.

“It’s your space,” he said. “Do with it what you want.”

In a moment of lapsed judgement, he forgot to warn me about not setting fires.

What would I put up there? Some baseball memorabilia perhaps? I hate when people do that. Whenever I see someone put an autographed baseball on their desk, I just want to steal it. I never do. Thank goodness I hate touching things other people’s grimy hands have already made contact with.

A picture made by Jenny Bee makes sense. What about a picture of us together?

No. I can’t do that. Most of my coworkers are Filipinos. They’d see her and we’d have a conversation about me being married to a Filipino. I can’t let them know yet. I need to save this for a more dire situation.

“Don’t kill me!” I’ll holler while pressed against the floor of the women’s bathroom, rocket launcher aimed at my face. “I’m married to someone from the same part of the world as you!”

Yeah. That’ll save me.

I do plan to decorate my cubicle at some point with a little more flair than the barrent wasteland it is now. Something about making your desk at work “feel at home” never felt right to me. This is the place you’re supposed to despise. You’re supposed to hate it. You’re supposed to want to leave as soon as possible.

In that case, I’m decorating it with pictures of Kim Jung-Un and displaying my high school yearbook.