My grandma keeps a basket of yarn in her house. It is truly wonderful stuff. It is handspun wool. She keeps it in the guest room where I sleep when I stay over there. From its perch on the hand painted wooden bench, it mocks me. While it is only two skeins, it still cries out to me...."knit me......knit me". It is unattainable. Why, you might ask, does my grandmother keep beautiful, handspun wool in a basket in the spare bedroom where it mocks me hauntingly?
Because she is evil I tell you. Pure evil.