Bitches Get Stitches

my knitting life has narrowed.
it’s been nothing but round after round of brioche rib.
with lace weight.
on 5’s.

my progress has been glacially slow:
about an inch a day.

all this monogamy feels necessary;
it is after all my first commission.
but i found my mind wandering
and a familiar twitch in my right eye.

i was having visions of an isolated ski lodge,
a typewriter,
and chasing shelley duvall with an axe.

rather than going postal, i thought it best to cheat.

one night locked in my room with netflix
and a shawl was born.
or finished rather.

nothing, nothing feels better than casting off that last stitch in the wee hours of the night. this must be what shooting up heroin feels like.

besides,
it’s not really cheating on tina’s sweater,
if the shawl’s for her.
right?