Margo tackled her DIY project with the intensity of a caffeinated squirrel. The target? A sagging couch, destined to become a ‘space-age throne’ complete with ‘thrusters’ made from duct-taped hair dryers. Her garage, normally a graveyard for half-finished crafts, now resembled a mad scientist’s lair—spray-painted filing cabinets leaned at precarious angles, while a treadmill spun uselessly in the corner, allegedly for ‘moral support.’
“This isn’t a couch,” she declared to her neighbor, who’d wandered over to check on the noise. “It’s a portal!” She gestured wildly at the upholstery, now covered in glow-in-the-dark stars and a suspiciously placed bicycle horn. The neighbor blinked. “You’re putting a horn on a couch?”
“It’s an emergency evacuation beacon!” Margo yelled over the sound of a power drill. By noon, the couch had acquired a ‘laser cannon’ (a flashlight taped to a pool noodle) and a ‘hyperdrive engine’ (a lawnmower battery, jury-rigged with spaghetti straps).
When her friend Lisa arrived, she froze mid-step, eyeing the chaos. “You’re going to tip over.”
“I’ve calculated the center of gravity!” Margo insisted, though her voice wavered as the couch lurched sideways. A cloud of dust erupted as the treadmill finally gave up. By 3 p.m., the couch stood upright—barely—its ‘thrusters’ spewing sparks.
The next day, the neighborhood kids gathered, whispering about the “mysterious floating throne.” Margo, perched on it with a cup of lukewarm coffee, smiled. “Art is chaos with a paycheck,” she said. The couch wobbled. Everyone cheered.
