Dear Baby Sweater,
I hate you. You are evil, devil spawn sent to handicap me before Christmas knitting. That awful knot has returned in my neck just by working on you for 3 days. And what do I have to show for 3 days of knitting? Three frecken inches! Three! Thank God I figured out how to fix a missing yarn over or you would have found yourself unraveled and rolled up into a ball ready.
I want to be like the cool kids, knitting tangled yoke cardigans and hemlock ring blankets, but noooooooooooo. I have to be chained to you. You sit there, so smug knowing that I would never tell a very pregnant, hormonal women that I couldn't churn out a sweater for her. Especially since she takes all of the lunch orders.
Still I'm not touching you again until this weekend when I go buy a metal needle. Even scary pregnant ladies won't make me knit you until my neck seizes up and I cry. Until then Chicken is your master. She's a lot tougher than me so don't try your *&%# on her.
Chicken decides how to efficiently kick yarn ass