From A Jailhouse to a Birdhouse

I pushed the mop back and forth slowly as I circled near the door for a third time. I eyed the lock. They should’ve known better than assigning a former locksmith to mop in the prison laundry. That door was all I could think about now.

It was like giving candy to a baby. I wouldn't have to exert energy too much to get that door open, or maybe it's a trap!

Taking candy from a baby is easy, giving them candy is a different story. Nothing they can choke on, nothing too large for them to hold, they tend not to like sour things, and babies shouldn’t have too much sugar anyway. I told you it wasn’t easy!

My roommates tell me I overthink. Like on Halloween. "Just give 'em the Milky Ways!" they say, but they don't understand. The candy must match the costume. What ghost would ever eat Skittles? Frankensteins & Tootsie Pops do not mix. And if you hand out Butterfingers to a dinosaur

you might as well kiss your fingers good-bye. Everything in life must be methodical. What would life be if I didn’t match my socks to the color of the week? Why even bother if you’re not going to arrange the food on your plate in size order? Don’t get me started on coordinating

I retracted my hands from the bandsaw. Had I lived a decadent life full of artistic pursuits? I looked down at my mismatched socks covered in sawdust and collapsed under the weight of my shame. My accuser pulled me to my feet. “Just kidding,” they said. “Now finish my birdhouse!”