I am so sick to death of knitting you that I could die. I look at your endless linen stockinette and I think terrible things. I think of a small fire. I think of burying you in a shallow grave. I think of you “accidentally” being snipped over and over again into a million tiny little pieces with a guillotine paper cutter. (I would need to buy this piece of equipment for this terrible mishap to be possible, but I am starting to feel that this would be a prudent purchase.) I wish I had a dog so I could set you carelessly on the chesterfield, perhaps smeared in bacon fat.
It isn’t that you aren’t a great knit. I think you are, and although there’s snow forecast over the next little while, I do know that summer is coming, and you’re going to look great and totally be worth it. The thing is that even though I haven’t technically knit you before (just your tricky masquerading brother – Adrian) that is not how it feels. It feels like you and I are in a relationship with no goals. No future. Just me, you and unending stockinette in linen, and the fact that I’m unravelling your previous incarnation as I go makes it feel even more like you’re a Sisyphean task. I unravel a row, then knit it into a row, then ravel a row, then knit a row. I’m starting to live for the decreases that happen every so often, because they break up the monotony, and that’s just sad. An SSK is nothing to pin your dreams on.
I want you to know – I’ve started looking at other yarns. Soft yarns. Woolly yarns. Yarns with potential and charm and a colour that isn’t the same as yours. I am starting to feel just fine about the swearwords that have become a natural part of our relationship. I feel like you deserve them.
I don’t know how much longer I can hold on.