My four (or five) AM whinge post is too depressing and exhibitionist. Boundaries, feather, boundaries! I'm trying again, but I am unable to think of anything in my life right now that doesn't make me feel sorry for myself. There are two things that torture me particularly:
1. I can't finish this fucking toe up sock. It's my sixth sock (it would be my fifth, but I ripped one because I decided too late that the yarn wasn't good for the pattern I used) and my first toe up. When I left for Europe, it was complete except for the bind-off, and I purposefully didn't finish it off, assuming foolishly that the zippy few minute finishing job would give me a nice feeling of crafty accomplishment and provide a good door back into knitting. How wrong I was! I have tried, at this moment, four different bind-offs -- and that's not counting the fiddling with needle size that I've done with each one. I feel a little nightmarishly fairy tale: too tight, too loose, not elastic enough, too ugly ... I'm going to try and rip it again today and give it one more chance. I want this sock, and I refuse to give up.
2. I haven't finished a book since returning home. I was reading two books in Europe -- Europe Central and Midnight's Children -- and I had an amazing amount of velocity going on each of them. I should have finished them in the first few days that I returned! It's not like I have anything better to do. All of the books that I'm reading are good, I think about them frequently with fondness and curiosity for what happens next. I just can't finish anything.
There must be a perfect word for this. Ennui? Apathy? ADD? I don't know.