the little skeink that couldn't

There's been nothing but silence from the Frog House, and for good reason. The Widdershins have broken me. After weeks of knitting, frogging, knitting, tinking, knitting, tinking, and frogging some more, I finally reached the end of my tether. I'm only barely able to talk about it. The wounds are still too fresh. I feel like a jilted lover, and I'd rather be crying into a cup of hot cocoa while watching Sense and Sensibility than reliving my pain.

In spite of all my care and caution (read: lifelines, measuring, and counting stitches like a Gringotts goblin would galleons), I still got bitten. I turned the heel only to find that these socks wouldn't fit my mother unless A) she's been secretly binding her feet for the last ten years, or B) I found a way to travel back in time and give them to her as a gift for her 5th birthday rather than her 50th. How the hell did this happen? I'm flummoxed. I followed that f'in pattern to the letter, and yet somehow things went terribly awry.

And now... I can't even bear to look at them. It took every ounce of my willpower not to set fire to the unfinished socks, needles and working yarn still attached. I might have even tossed in the pattern and Ziploc baggie for good measure.

Ever since the incident, I'm finding it difficult to be enthusiastic about knitting. I've worked a bit on my long-lost Mr. and Mrs. Dashing, but to no avail. My knitting heart is tender, and wonders if it can ever love again.