Sometimes you can only take solace in your own uniqueness. My life is becoming steadily more difficult to cope with in the real world, but at least I know that I am absolutely not like all the other guys.
I’ve got creditors after me, I don’t have a love life (entirely my own fault, I know, but it still sucks), I just wasted a week of my time and my company’s money on an accreditation that I didn’t get, and I’m 31 years old and I’ve got arthritis in my back. I’m so fucking pissed off right now I could spit.
But then, there are these moments. I stopped by the Yarn Barn this afternoon to pick up some needles for a present for my mom. (Oh, mom – don’t read this.) As I was checking out, I saw a book behind the counter.
‘Oh my gosh! Is that Sally Melville’s “The Purl Stitch”? Is it out already?’
Marge, my ace knitting crone, smiled and grabbed me a copy.
Yeah. The Big Bad people of the world can try and screw with me all they want, but at the end of the day, I’m the only hetero guy in the city who gets jazzed by knitting books.
And long after I am dead and buried, my handiwork is going to be keeping my grand- nieces and nephews warm and comfy. What does a pissy little collection agency matter next to that brand of immortality?