Or why the hell did I decide to make f-ing dodo socks?
For some reason, I just can't make these effing socks do what they're supposed to do; ie look as if they will fit human feet and legs. I got as far as the bodies of the dodos the other night, and they were too tight, too annoying and just WRONG in every way, so I ripped them back and started again. Twice. I am now working on their stupid smug little faces for the third time, and if they don't work out this time, I'm going to either use the pattern to make into a blanket square or swear blind I've never heard of the pattern, or the gone birds project, or even Margaret Atwood. I might even go as far as swearing I'd never even heard of socks.
I don't know. Knitting is supposed to be a fun hobby. Something I do with my hands that isn't smoking, eating or drinking. Something that uses automatic muscle memory. Something that I enjoy. It is turning competitive, at least against myself; I do not have a competitive nature. I hate all forms of sodding sport. This is an endurance race, and if I manage to complete one sock without crying, swearing, shredding an entire ball of sock yarn or killing my loved ones, I will be happy.
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