The Ever-Present Shed Battle

A little note for you, my lovely readers: There’s a little shed in the backyard that is used to store lawn equipment and miscellaneous nuisances. This shed means nothing to anyone, except that it’s a threat to my life. You see, if I do or say anything to Ashleigh that she does not like, I am threatened with finishing my life in the shed. Now that you know this, the following conversation–held via text messages sent from our positions in our respective bedrooms–will make sense to you.

ASHLEIGH, having just discovered the pile of laundry I lovingly folded for her:
Why didn’t you fold my underwear or pair my socks?
*looks pointedly toward shed*
Because last time I said I was going to,
you freaked at the idea of me touching your undies.
*looks pointedly toward my spot in my bed that I’m not leaving*
Ah, well, consider that recanted.
Perfect squares next time, if you please.
Ah, ok. Consider it done.
You are dismissed.
Yes ma’am.
*looks pointedly toward shed*
*looks pointedly toward your growing stack of dirty laundry
that won’t get folded when it’s clean if I’m in the shed*
*pointedly builds a convenient hatch
for inserting laundry into shed when it needs to be folded*
*pointedly destroys servitude hatch and
servitude sentence due to new shed dwelling*
I think, just maybe, that I won.

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