This is the scarf I am knitting. It is red, and is slowly, very slowly growing. I first learnt how to knit when I was very young with my Nanna. When I was little I started knitting a scarf for myself but lost interest, dropping stitches frequently between watching Hey Arnold or listening to my B*witched CD on my discman or something. I then decided I wanted it to be a barbie scarf because it had more than halved in size and basically because I couldn't be bothered finishing it or admitting that I didn't have the patience to do it.
So what I'm saying is that knitting kind of pisses me off, but I like the idea of it. It's romantic, apparently therapeutic and 'crafty', ooh. There are many things in this world, like knitting, which let me down in actuality. Things like porridge, boyfriends, AM radio, spray paint and ah, painting my room pink. I'm desperate to enjoy them, to involve them intimately in my life but I find myself somehow unable to live out my fantasy relationship with them. I still persist, though, despite my ability to recognize the vast differences between reality and fabricated reality. I don't know why.