Marla’s garage reeked of glue and existential dread. Stacked against the wall was a 12-foot-tall cardboard castle, its towers crooked, its moat filled with expired yogurt. She’d promised her neighbor, Dave, a ‘masterpiece’ for the block party. Instead, it looked like a toddler’s tantrum with a ruler.
‘This is a *vision*,’ Marla insisted, jabbing a glue stick at Dave, who was now mid-sip of his third coffee. ‘The turrets? They’re *intentional*. Look! See the texture?’
Dave squinted. ‘Is that a pizza box? For the keep?’
‘Recycled *elegance*,’ she said, as a rogue paper airplane zipped past his head—probably her ex’s resume, which had been repurposed into ‘modern art.’
The castle collapsed two minutes later, taking a shelf of artisanal pickles with it. Marla clapped like a madwoman. ‘Audible! We’re *breaking boundaries*!’
Dave stared at the wreckage. ‘You’re gonna get evicted.’
‘Nah,’ she said, slapping a duct-tape crown onto a yogurt container. ‘They’ll throw me a *festival*.’
