Picasso, like the artist

I’ve always been proud of my woodworking. Ever since I made that cute little jewelry box my sophomore year of high school. Even possessive of it. I wouldn’t like other kids poking or prodding at it. I don’t think I ever outgrew any of that unfortunately. Sure, when I make things for others it’s fine but I just feel different about something I build to put in my home. Over the years, though, stuff inevitably comes apart, which is understandable since I made a lot of things when I was a lot younger and less experienced, but I just didn’t have the heart to get rid of it. One day, a chair I had worked on for days during my freshman year of college had a leg that fell off. It honestly shook me up a little. I didn’t think much of it, just that I was evidently way too attached to a piece of furniture. I never thought much about my past, mainly because I don’t remember much. However, when the top shelf of the shelving unit I made my senior year of high school fell I had a really strange experi...