The rustic shack that houses our department contains, for all its decrepitude and squalor, one shining example of technological efficiency: the air conditioning. It is brutally powerful. I don’t remember encountering such a system since the last time I was in a restaurant’s walk-in refrigerator.

And I sit right underneath the fucking thing. While the rest of the office relaxes in perfect comfort, I get to freeze my ass off in the artic downdraft. Even if the office is really muggy to begin with, the comfort level at my desk is only reasonable for a couple of minutes; after that, it goes from “uncomfortable” to “cold” to “icy” to “my frozen testicles are in danger of shattering if I move” in a startlingly short time. Even as I type this, my fingers are actually so cold, I cannot operate my keyboard without difficulty.

Attempts to block the offending vent have thus far failed. I can’t turn the AC off for long, because then the rest of the office whines about the heat. The “closed” position of the vent merely delays the onset of discomfort- and by a surprisingly small amount, at that. The last gambit, sealing the entire thing with gaffer tape, ultimately failed as the cold air dessicated the adhesive, and it fell off with a sudden plop onto my desk three weeks ago. I’m hatching a new plan that involves removing the register and tampering with it from the inside. I hope it works. Gluing testicle shards back together is more difficult than you’d think.