Maggie stood in her garage, surrounded by a labyrinth of duct tape, empty cereal boxes, and a defunct lawnmower. Her latest project? A 12-foot-tall sculpture called *The Great Garage Gargantua*. ‘This will be the talk of the neighborhood,’ she declared, squinting at her blueprint—a napkin scrawled with stick figures and a questionable compass.
She began assembling, hammering PVC pipes into a skeletal frame. The garage smelled like old glue and ambition. Then came the embellishments: bubble wrap for clouds, a bicycle wheel for a nose, and a toaster oven repurposed as a ‘magnificent mouth.’ By hour three, the Gargantua stood tall—until Maggie leaned too hard on the cereal-box legs.
CRASH. A cascade of Rice Krispies and existential dread followed. Maggie stared at the pile, then grinned. ‘Okay, new plan,’ she said, grabbing a spatula. She mashed the debris into a new shape: a squishy, gelatinous blob with googly eyes made from bottle caps. ‘The *Gargantua Reborn*,’ she announced.
Neighbors gathered, confused and captivated. ‘Is it a monster?’ asked a kid. ‘No,’ Maggie said, winking. ‘It’s a reminder: chaos is just creativity wearing a funny hat.’ She tossed a handful of glitter into the air. It sparkled like hope—literally.
