Disbelief

With the focus of a neurosurgeon, I cast on the mock ragg sock the third time. I counted the stitches compulsively to make sure I had the proper number. I divided the stitches over four needles and counted for another eon. I knit the first row of ribbing with laserlike precision to make sure I didn't screw up the pattern. Again.

This might go down in history as the most perfect cast-on I've ever achieved. Each loop gracefully spiralled around the needle in an exact duplicate of its neighbor. It was the freakin' Rockettes of knitting.

This is how far I got before the yarn defeated me again.




















Do you see that? That travesty, that insult, that mockery of careful and attentive knitting?

No?

Look closer.

















Not only is there a knot--

Not only is that knot tied to resemble a three-year-old's crayon scribbles--

But they didn't even come close to preserving the colorway striped patterning at the join!

ARGH!

My yarn hates me.

head*desk