Someone please remind me why suicide isn't a reasonable solution to all my problems.
I feel as though I have torn my firstborn child to shreds.
So I have been adopted into a knitting circle I have never met?? I started knitting a few weeks ago (on my fifth sock now! Socks are fun.) and one of my friends told their mother about it. Their mother knits. Like a lot. And she also hoards, again, a lot. So, two weeks ago, my friend gave me a care package with a project bag, stitch markers and a pair of small ducks to stick on the needles so I don't lose any stitches.
Needlessly said, I was absolutely overjoyed. I made sure my friend would tell their mother how happy I was about this (I mean look at those ducks. LOOK AT THEM), ran around screaming in a circle for about half an hour and expected the whole thing to be over.
I was wrong.
One more important thing: I have met this woman once, and so briefly that I don't remember what she looks like. I have no clue if she remembers what I look like. I don't even remember her name. Anyway, I guess my friend mentioned I was complaining about wool being expensive because I am broke as hell and that does not pair well with hyper fixating on an expensive new hobby. Now their mother listened to that, went to her knitting circle, and discussed me. With all these other old ladies. And they decided to go through their dragon hoards of yarn to decide what they needed and what not, and pooled together to gift it to me.
Whom they have never met before. Because they thought it would make me happy. AND I AM HAPPY. VERY HAPPY. (The only issue is that my friend refuses to give it to me until Tuesday afternoon so I actually study for my biology test which I guess is fair but also uuuggggghhhhhhhhh.)
More importantly, I am just so completely overwhelmed at the thought of these people hearing about me through a silent post game led by my incredibly cagey friend and just deciding to help. They have no clue who I am. They just thought it would make me happy. Holy shit. I need a moment. I am in awe.
