Hi, everyone. Remember me?
No, I'm not dead. In fact, I'm not even not knitting. I'm not knitting tons, but enough.
I'm just uninspired to blog. You know, there are many knitters who know what to talk about in their blogs, and it's fascinating to read. A technique, a fun yarn, heck, a funny thing that happened in their day, all become blog-worthy material.
Me? I've never been good with words, and prefer the show part of show-and-tell. Showing off a finished project? That I can do. But otherwise? I'm at a loss. Besides, "Ooo, look, the yarn is pretty, and I have 5 inches done," I don't know what to say about a WIP. And FOs, those I don't got right now.
So, since I have nothing to say, and no FOs, I will leave you with a picture of some stuff I won a while back:
Two very generous hanks of sock yarn (the green stuff is enough for TWO pairs of socks!) hand-dyed by Angelia:
And pretty stitch markers and a sock-blocker keychain:
Ironically for someone bad with words, I won these as a second-place prize in a bad fiction contest on Ravelry. The task was to write an introductory sentence of bad fiction, very much like the Bulwer-Lytton contest. Here is my entry:
It was only after extensive cleaning of the bathroom mirror – with much rubbing; half a bottle of Windex and a full bottle of whiskey (one used for cleaning and one to bolster the spirit, though soon after the first shot, their destinies became far less certain); destruction of a small rainforest’s worth of paper towels; amounts of spit and breath-fog that rivaled that recently defunct little rainforest’s annual precipitation in quantity; and tennis elbow as searingly painful as that endured by the poor creature destined to groom Cousin It; efforts unaided in the least by the continuous treachery of the toothbrush, which kept leaping desperately off its uneasy resting place by the sink into the finger-thick layer of kitten-soft dust behind the toilet, which may, at one time, have indeed been a kitten and where, perhaps, the cleaning efforts would have been better directed – and followed by an equally thorough, if less effective, scouring of her eyeglasses, that Doris decided that maybe it was not the mirror or the glasses, but the anti-aging face cream that wasn’t working.