You down with OPP? (That stands for "Other People's Pussy," in case you weren't familiar with the early '90s Naughty by Nature hit of the same name.)

Me? Well, not exactly. But I am down with OPD: other people's desks.

The story of my work history over the past three years is the story of other people's desks, but also of other people's photos, other people's knick-knacks and other people's trash. Mine is the story of a part-timer whose job description didn't quite merit a personal workspace, and thus was sent on a journey into the land of other people's desks.

But hey, the world of OPD can be a fun and exciting place. You can learn a lot from OPD.

For instance, I know that the features editor at the Journal Star has a beautiful daughter who will be married soon. I know that a certain copy-editor is a vehement feminist. I know about professional wrestling obsessions, coffee drinking preferences and even eBay buying habits.

Yes that's right, eBay buying habits.

When I sit at OPD, I am also sitting at other people's computers with their Google, eBay and WWW histories resting beneath my fingertips.

Dance Dance Revolution (both the pads and the game), Final Fantasy X (along with strategy guides) and even used jeans--all recent eBay purchases of one copy-desk denizen. Who knew.

A novelty South Park “cheesy poofs” box. Plastic flowers. A phone book dated 1998. Tear off calendars that haven't been torn off for months. These are all part of creative office feng-shui.

Many people would hate to work in the world of OPD, but I relish the opportunity. I move like a ghost, barely touching keyboards and mice, returning all pens and pencils to their original resting positions. I float about from desk to desk—whatever is available will do.

I live in the world of OPD. I come and go as I please. I know all about you, but you don’t know me.