4 Uses for Your Amazing She Shed That Totally Aren’t Murder

She sheds are all the rage! And you know what goes with all that extreme rage you’re probably feeling as a “she”? It’s definitely not murder or mayhem, little lady. No, you are a chick of letters. Of Art. Of gardening. Yes, that’s the reason for all those shovels—gardening. Read on for the best ways to glitter-up your she shed for maximum deep personal satisfaction.


Every gal needs somewhere to express herself after a long day in the work-a-day grind filled with catcalls and being told that your natural hair is too “untidy” for the office, even though Justin walks around with a greasy man bun that reeks of patchouli. Your artistical she shed is the perfect place to let it all go, whether you prefer to write slogans on the wall in the blood red paint of the guilty (“Nolite te bastardes carborundorum, bitches”), or just Jackson Pollack the place with some arterial aerosol spray. You can keep all your art tools in there, such as duct tape, wrenches, and saws. You’re gonna need some saw space for sure, because Justin is a reedy fellow, and tougher than he looked. Looks. Because he is alive.


Being a writer is so fulfilling to the soul. Just ask me and my manifesto! I could not have ranted all eight-hundred and seventy-two pages without my she shed to relax inside. My little chaise lounge is perfect for punching, and the extra insulation I added totally stops my neighbors from complaining about my existential screams of futility. Now I have all the privacy I need to proceed with part 761 of my masterpiece, entitled, “That Motherfucker Has Gone Too Far; Now Is the Time for Glorious Revenge, and I Already Have Barrels and Turpentine Hidden in My Beloved She Shed.” For…paint stripping. Yes. Paint stripping.


Ah, scrapbooking! Making memories to last a lifetime doesn’t come easy, although sniffing all that craft glue in a hot, enclosed space will give you lots and lots and lots of energy to put mementos into scrapbooks. Mementos of your real self, the beast within who doesn’t take anyone’s shit anymore, Kathy. You will paste memories of Kathy in your reddest scrapbook—such as your lunch bag she stole from the communal fridge. But not just one. Nah, you can paste torn scraps from ALL your carefully packed lunches she devoured, including the expensive salmon you meal-prepped for a whole damn week! Kathy. Maybe you can spray some of Kathy’s nasty mothball perfume in there. Or the collection of passive aggressive post-its Kathy wrote you about the ladies room. News flash: WE ALL POOP, KATHY. Yet the last and best poop will be yours.

Metaphorically—most she sheds don’t have a bathroom.


The smell of fresh earth is intoxicating. Not as good as huffing craft glue, but not bad. The earth gives life, and takes death when your enemies shuffle off this mortal coil. With no help from you, of course. Pour all your troubles into a decorative clay pot you adorned with cute birdies, and watch the world melt away. All your troubles. Dirt hides a myriad of sins. Buries them, you might say. The last place they’d think to look is underneath your thriving Pom Pon dahlia bed. Look for what? Ha ha! Nothing but potting soil and a giant set of pruning shears hides in your trusty, padlocked she shed.

Get back to your nature, girl.