I bought a desk this weekend. I have not sat at a desk since 2006. April-ish, if I recall correctly.
I bought a desk at Ikea and a fake potted plant, came home and sorted through a good four years of clutter, pushed an (Ikea) dresser down the hall into the boys' room, which I traded them for an (Ikea) bookshelf that I pushed back into my room, my office.
The blinds should be replaced and the walls desperately need painted; the stuff I hung up is stragetically cover up the worst of the scuff marks in the meantime. Everything else is just whatever I could find lying around the house, like a former remote-control organizer basket now holds envelopes, thank-you cards, my memory card reader and a bottle of fenugreek capsules. I'm storing pens in a candleholder because it seemed nicer-looking than a plastic Thomas the Tank Engine cup. I dunno. Maybe not.
It's nothing you'll ever see on some creamy yummy aspirational design blog. There's a litter box in the closet.
Naturally, I love it beyond all sense and reason.