When the back yard is flooding and the dogs are snoring and I’m just sort of “Blergh January Pbbbft”, the best way to proceed is to join Weight Watchers (again, damnit, just live and let live, my truth is different from your truth, et cetera), drink some hot tea (with rock sugar and honey), and start knitting a cardigan.
I didn’t do a gauge swatch. I have no idea if this thing is going to be way too big or way too small. All I know is she will eventually look something like this and I have extremely high hopes for her. I’m going to take her out for coffee, and then I’ll take her to vote, and maybe we’ll see some movies or write some stories or something.
This is gross, but eczema is eating up my eyelids. In fact, in about three or four days I suspect I will maybe no longer have eyelids. I’ll then walk around town in an unchallenged and never-ending staring match—armed with a spray bottle of water to prevent my exposed eyeballs from turning into raisins. If you see me, just pretend nothing weird is going on. Deep down we both know that neither of us wants to talk about it.
I’ll keep you updated on the cardigan, because that’s what one tends to do when one is falling in love. The only difference is that my love interest is a rusty Throwback sweater and not some scuzz who has a defenseless eyeball fetish.