I don’t know what crap you think you’re pulling, or if you think you’re messing with an amateur or something, but let me tell you. I’m no rookie, and I see what’s happening here.
I’ve been knitting on you way longer than any reasonable pair of socks should take, and I don’t know what you’re doing with all of the stitches and yarn I keep throwing at you, but you can just take this scam you’re running and stuff it.
You should be done. You should have been done yesterday, and I know it, and you know it and I don’t know if maybe you thought that I wouldn’t notice that you were messing with me, but I have raised three teen-aged girls and I have my black belt in spotting sneaky manoeuvres and you aren’t even competing at the Olympic level.
This is the way it’s going to be. I am going to knit on you for one more night, and you can choose what happens next. Either you can decide to be finished, or tomorrow I can take a sharp pair of scissors and cut you into a million pieces.
Love (or not, again, that’s up to you.)