Marla’s garage reeked of glue and existential dread. She’d vowed to craft a ‘modern art masterpiece’ using only items from the thrift store’s ‘broken things’ bin. By hour three, her canvas looked like a raccoon had sued a kaleidoscope.
‘This is *art*,’ she muttered, stapling a dented soup can to a rug made of socks. The sock rug was sentient. It hissed.
‘You’re supposed to be a *rug*,’ Marla said, squinting at the yarn balls orbiting her head. They’d migrated from her failed mobile project. ‘Stop conspiring with the stapler.’
The stapler jammed. The sock rug hissed louder. Marla grabbed a paint-splattered mitten and swatted the air. A feather duster exploded from a hidden compartment in the wall, scattering glitter like confetti.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘we’re pivoting to… installation art.’ She duct-taped the feather duster to the ceiling, then froze. The sock rug had formed a crude smile.
‘You’re not allowed to be happy,’ Marla hissed. The rug hissed back.
At midnight, the artwork—now a towering sculpture of mismatched socks, jammed staplers, and one very disgruntled feather duster—collapsed. Marla emerged from the debris, face smudged with glitter, and grinned. ‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Now it’s *dynamic*.’
