I love my shed.

In fact, it's bordering on an unnatural love. The kind Rick Santorum might refer to as man-on-shed love. I fantasize about all the cool things I want to do in my shed. I want to put in a wood burning stove, buy a lathe and a nice workbench, and fritter away my declining years making things nobody wants. Maybe I'll brew a few batches of beer that nobody drinks to go with it.

If I found myself independently wealthy tomorrow (no doubt from the sale of the wooden objects and the beer), I would spend the rest of my life puttering professionally. I would overpopulate the yard with geegaws and doodads and mow the lawn down to stubble. I would develop my own recipe for suet lumps to hang for the birds, and fret about whether they liked them less than commercial suet lumps. I would wire, plumb, insulate, and drywall the shed, then sit in it and admire it's coziness. I would contribute nothing to society, save no lives, and leave no legacy whatsoever, except maybe a pretty shed and a lot of homemade beer.

That's my dream.

Ev