Ade (agentfroot) wrote,
Ade
agentfroot

  • Mood:
Wow. Tomorrow night, at the coffeehouse, they're hosting a knitting event. It's meant to teach people to knit, and they have supplies there. I'm excited. Recently I've been scanning the Lion Brand newsletters for any local or quasi-local knitting events, but I haven't seen any in the Pittsburgh area. But there's an event tomorrow night! Maybe I could get someone to help me with cable knitting and figure out the lace pattern on this yoga mat bag I've been trying to make for Nick (but the lace always looks a bit off somehow). It would be cool if someone started a knitting group on campus. I'd definitely go, even though I'm not a student any more.

*ahem* Knitting excitement aside, life has been rather uneventful, though my friends are back in Meadville and we've been hanging out and stuff. Agh. I just went to the eBay site and saw on the front page an advertisement for the "do it yourself" section with yarn and needles. Yes, I'm obsessed. But I'm going to Joann Fabrics tomorrow (too much yarn is never enough!), so my hunger should be quenched.

And now, I will tell you a story. I'll make it up as I go along.

One midnight, an old woman got out of bed to look out the window. Rain pounded against the window, and her neighbor's oak tree reached out to her, scraping at the window. She drew the heavy curtains to block the window and cranked the volume on her tape player, blasting Gordon Lightfoot as loud as her frail ears could handle.
"Blocking us out again, are you?" came a low, watery voice from her sofa. A young boy with thin white hair and a wizened face sat stroking her calico kitten. "Maria, you know you can't hide from us."
"Then what is it you want this time?" she asked, turning down the volume a notch.
"I don't want anything from you any more, dear child. Just to see you again. It's not my fault the miserable weather follows me wherever I go."
"I'm seventy-nine, you can stop calling me a child."
The elderly-looking boy laughed. "You'll always be a child to me, dear Maria. Have you forgotten how we took you in when nobody else would? How we raised you to be like us, finding order in chaos? Say, I really like this kitten of yours. What's her name?"
"Gina."
"Gina, yes. What was I saying? Oh, nevermind. I wish I had some peach pie with me to share, but I ran out last month."

...and that's all for now, because I feel like doing something else now. Maybe I'll finish it later.
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