Improvisation is the Devil: a Memoir.

There are some moments in life that require your hidden and deeply suppressed talents to make themselves known. A collection of events can align so that your most unlikely capabilities are proudly displayed and your presence, previously established in some indeterminate form, gains new meaning in the eyes of those lucky enough to witness these events. These precious and infrequent opportunities can grant you insight into others, provided you are at the time conscious and reasonably sentient.

I've never had one of these moments, but they sure do sound nice. What can I say? Being an open book has its drawbacks. Now, what exactly was the point of all that rambling if I personally haven't experienced it? Firstly, a better question would be to ask whether or not I have ever had a point with anything I've ever made. Secondly, my point is that I needed an introduction to another exciting College Story™ and what better way to do that than in the most boring and pointlessly introspective way possible?

There is nothing that better represents higher education than rambling relentlessly about random topics while using facts of your own creation. It was upon this principle that I based my entire grade on when sitting in Leadership class on a Monday afternoon. My professor for this class, a big bear-like man whose name was Dexter, liked his classes to be "interactive" and "fun". This meant that he essentially played around on his phone for an hour and a half while we students wrote in-class essays on the chapters that none of us had read. He allowed us to bring our books and mutter amongst ourselves, so this was never a huge issue. At the start of this class, however, he had something else planned.

"ALRIGHT, GUYS!" he boomed cheerfully. "WE'RE GONNA DO SOMETHIN' DIFFERENT TODAY. YOU ALL CAN EITHER PRESENT AS A GROUP OR DO A BRIEF SKIT, LIKE IT SAYS HERE ON THE PAGE."

He went on to say that the work for that day was based on chapter twelve of our textbook, which covered adaptive leadership. Then he handed out a small piece of paper with instructions on it.

"YOU HAVE, OH-" He looked at the digital clock that was affixed to the back of the room. "-15-ISH MINUTES TO PREPARE FOR IT, SO GET WITH UP TO FOUR OTHER PEOPLE AND GET ON IT."

Immediately, four other people's heads jerked towards me, and they dragged their tiny, college-sized desks around me. A guy to my left who I knew rarely studied muttered, "Rats," as he realized that there were no more available spaces.

"So," I looked around at them, amused. "I guess you guys are my group?"

"Yep!" responded Christina, a girl I'd paired with before.

Desiree, a shy student who consistently knew the right answers to in-class questions but never spoke up, nodded at me and smiled. I'd worked with her, and a girl named Sara (I know nothing about her except her face), before also. There was only one new addition to our group, but since we had limited time to skim through the chapter, choose which activity to do, and plan it, I didn't ask for his name.

I looked through the instructions while the other students doodled on their pages or flipped through their textbooks, pretending to read. Since it was a group project, I fully expected to do the entire thing on my own. I slapped my own textbook down on my desk and skimmed through the chapter. This would be way more interesting if-

"Do any of you hate the idea of the skit?" I asked, looking up and meeting each person's gaze for a second.

"Um..." said Sara, trailing off and glancing at the far wall.

There was a moment of contemplative muttering.

"... I mean, I guess not," responded the one guy in our group. I still didn't know his name.

"Cool!" I bent back down over the page and started scribbling ideas.

I came across a term in adaptive leadership that essentially meant "to observe an issue from afar and, being detached from the issue, more easily solve it". It was called "getting on the balcony". That is the stupidest thing I've ever read, I thought. I'm gonna use it. My notes were getting a bit long and hard to read, even for me, which isn't saying much since my handwriting is nearly illegible at the best of times. Halfway through drawing an arrow from my marginal notes to the body, my pen paused. I tapped it against my face for a moment, thinking.

I jerked my head up abruptly and turned towards the guy.

"What's your name? I need it."

He looked taken aback for a moment. Then he smirked and said, "Bubbles."

I laughed.

"I can work with that," I grinned, before returning to my work.

Panic crossed his features. He leaned forward, stammering, "No no no wait! Wait! It's Jason! It's Jason."

I laughed again.

"I can work with that too."

If Jason had been worried before, he was now deeply concerned.  My notes were almost done. I started to rewrite them, just as the professor called out "5 MINUTES." I was cutting it a bit close with time, and the other students started to look anxious.

"We have no idea what we're doing," Jason grumbled, tapping his pencil against his desk.

"Don't worry," I told him absently as I stared at my page of hastily scrawled notes. "I can make it so that's okay. I'll give you cues."

But I wasn't just making sure that it was okay, I was relying on it. If done correctly, I could play out the lack of preparation as a part of the skit. I made one final addition, and then told Christina, Desiree, Sara, and Jason their roles. Out of some 11 groups of students, there were only two groups doing the skit. Since we were a minority, ours had to be good. Students presented their interpretations of adaptive leadership, discussing it before the class. All too soon, it was our turn.

The worry on their faces was all too clear now. Desiree was shaking from nerves. Christina gave me a look that said I really hope you know what you're doing. I took my single page of notes, and pulled a chair forward. I wanted to create a storytelling atmosphere, and all eyes turned to me as I casually sat down. I wasn't nervous. I grinned. I had an audience for my tale.

The skit went something like this:
"In the depths of night, after the sun had long since set, four brilliant and definitely not shady college students approached their shared apartment. At least, it was probably their apartment. Being night, it was kind of dark, which made it difficult to determine that sort of thing. None of them had brought the right keys, which was an inconvenience to all, especially since locked doors rarely open with a polite request. They stood around, not knowing what to do."

All four members of my group nodded sheepishly and waved. I looked up briefly to a sea, or, more accurately, a small pond, of entranced and entertained faces. I continued my narration.

"As they pondered what to do over this wild and unexpected conundrum, two of the students, Sara and Desiree, decided to enter through the door on the balcony. Sara awkwardly boosted Desiree."

"Hey!" Sara exclaimed as much in feigned surprise as real, before adding, "let me just help you get onto the balcony." She winked at the other students before pretending to boost Desiree up onto a ledge, which was really just a rickety chair. They both stumbled, adding authenticity to my former statement and making the class chuckle.

"The remaining two students stood there awkwardly for a moment before Jason, fondly referred to by the other students as 'Bubbles', had another shocking idea."

Both Christina and Jason unintentionally did exactly as I had said, resembling deer in headlights when they realized that the class was focused on them. Their attention had wandered, so the sudden silence caught them off guard... exactly how I had intended it. I looked at Bubbles. He jumped in surprise before pursing his lips and putting his hands on his hips effeminately. Using an accent to rival a Southern Belle, he nodded to Sara. "But, honey, what if we just... I don't know... picked the lock, sweetcakes?" The other students in the classroom chortled.

It was horrible; I loved it. I moved my gaze to Christina.

"As it happens, I always carry a lockpicking set with me. Who knew that'd come in handy?" Christina pulled a black pencil case from inside her jacket and unzipped it, spilling half of its contents before using two pencils to mime unlocking the door.

It was time to end this madness. I glanced down.

"So, using their combined resources of lockpicks, brilliant thinking, and mild acrobatic skills, the four decidedly not shady college students entered the apartment and locked it behind them." I paused. "Does anyone have any questions?"

What followed next was a confused medley of inquiries. None of the questions asked were about the actual topic, which was supposed to be the reason for the presentations. Instead, in a much more gratifying turn of events, I was asked about the story. Why did the students not have their keys? Was that even their apartment? What "not shady" person carries lockpicks? Towards the end of the skit and afterwards, my professor stared at me like he'd never seen me before. Dexter relied on the class to provide me with questions, because, unusually and completely contrary to his character, he had none.

Let's Taco 'Bout That

There is nothing more beautiful than waking in the morning to the sound of birdsong. Seeing gentle beams of light escape from behind curtains just to illuminate the warmth of covers is one of life's greatest joys.

I assume so, anyway.

I wouldn't know, because when I awoke one morning in May, it was to the earsplitting shrieks of an alarm. I rolled out of bed and onto the floor, blindly searching for the source of the endless beeping. There's nothing quite like crawling around in the darkness at 4:30am and searching for something. Gollum had it rough. I made my way across the room, finally finding my phone and shutting it off.

Blessed silence. All I wanted was to cocoon myself in my comforter and never emerge, but, unfortunately, I had things to do. The first being, namely, to get up off of the floor.

I sighed and stood up, immediately regretting the decision. I swayed and gripped the top of my dresser. Apparently, five-ish hours of sleep isn't enough. Good to know. I edged my way through the blackness towards the light switch, trying to avoid the corners of the bed, which were also black and consequently invisible.

I made it to the far wall without incident. Nailed it! I thought, just before tripping on the textbook I'd left on the floor the night before. I bumped into the wall, accidentally finding the light switch in my attempt to catch myself. I congratulated myself on my godlike skills of balance and flipped on the overhead light. I had the foresight to shut my eyes before doing this, so I wasn't blinded for more than a few moments.

I rummaged through my closet, making the strategic (read: unusual and uncalled for) decision to wear something other than yoga pants before making my way to the bathroom. I glanced up at the mirror, meeting my own sleep deprived and slightly crazed stare. Yikes. Hello, Shrek. 

After my shower, I poured the equivalent of four shots of espresso into a mug.

I took a sip.

I'm gonna die, I thought, before guzzling the rest of the mug's contents.

The sun hadn't yet risen, but I was already out the front door and headed to the bus stop. It was a Friday, and Agriculture classes were canceled that day, so there were only a few other students seated on the bus. I stared blankly out the window across from me, thinking about nothing. After a few minutes, it occurred to me that there was a student sitting there, and he was looking extremely uncomfortable. I snapped back into the present.

The bus stopped and I stepped out of it, psyching myself up to walk the quarter mile to the Agriculture building. The coffee helped. It was almost 6 by the time I walked in. I located the professor in charge of registering students' names and put mine down on the list.

"Alright then," I said, looking up at him with my pen still on the page. "What do you need me to do?"

"I... Uh..." He cast about for something to say. "... didn't expect any students to be on time, so... I don't have anything right now for you."

He gestured to a nearby group of tables and chairs. "I guess you can just sit here for now."

"Okay, thank you," I said, sitting down. The whole point of being here was for extra credit and, as long as my name was on the sheet of students who earned it, I didn't really care how I spent my time. I could afford to waste it. And, boy, did I.

Over the next half hour, several other professors made comments in passing about how unexpected it was that a student was on time. I wasn't entirely sure what I would be doing to earn this extra credit. The professors I asked gave me vague answers and, when another student did end up arriving, she didn't know what we were doing either.

At a quarter to seven, a sufficient number of other students had arrived, and I was told to go into Exam Room 202 with the professor of horticulture who would "probably have something for you to do". She was a tall, thin, woman with long and curly blonde hair. She wore cat-eye glasses and an earth toned dress with a gigantic shawl wrapped around her shoulders. When she spoke, it was in a soft, cute, and mystical voice that honestly kind of weirded me out. But she brought breakfast tacos, so I got over it.

She assigned me to a small group of students who would be giving early college entrance exams to high schoolers.

"The first one starts at 7:15," she told us gently. "So please have everything set up by then."

She glided smoothly away with the rest of the tacos, her long dress whispering as she left. I'm not entirely convinced her feet were on the floor. There were three other girls in my group, and only one guy. Before getting to work, we introduced ourselves. I'm going to say that they were called Deborah, Bethany, Megan, and Dave for no reason other than that those were their actual names. We set up posters for the students to analyze and organized the exams we were to distribute.

Deborah, Bethany, and Megan were all smiles. They laughed as we taped down the posters to the desk at the back of the room, making jokes about how they couldn't use tape properly and needed Dave's help. They gushed about how attractive my satchel was and appeared to be excited for the day to begin so that they could earn their extra credit. None of us had met before, but you would have thought they had known each other their entire lives.

It was almost exactly seven, and I felt like I was about to enter hibernation. It wasn't until I began having thoughts like seven months isn't that bad that I realized it was a problem. Note to self: don't be sleep deprived and caffeine addicted before walking a mile and setting up an exam room. Your metabolism doesn't like that. It was a weirdly specific mental note to make, but I found it helpful.

"I'm gonna go get a Starbucks," I announced to the room. "Does anyone want anything?"

The girls looked at each other and shook their heads in unison.

Dave raised his hand slightly.

"Actually... I'd like one."

"Cool. What do you want?"

"Here's five bucks. Just get me anything."

"No, really. What do you want?"

Dave seemed momentarily nonplussed. Then he gave me a detailed and very particular request. The nearest Starbucks was within walking distance of most buildings on campus (a wise marketing decision), so it only took a few minutes to order our drinks separately and make my way back. Nevertheless, I only had two minutes to spare before the prospective college students were set to arrive.

Upon my return, I set the contents of my left hand (my coffee, my wallet, my phone) down on the desk in front of him. Now that I was less likely to drop anything, I placed his change on his receipt.

"Heresyourcupheresyourreceipt," I recited in one breath. Walking up hills with a deadline is hard.

"You don't have to-" he began, indicating to the change I had already handed to him. He looked down at it in mild surprise. "Well, okay."

Why on earth would he not expect his change back? That's kind of sad. I turned around, towards the front of the room, intending to put my things back in my bag. As I did so, I noticed that Deborah, Bethany and Megan had their arms crossed and were whispering  to one another in a decidedly unfriendly and conspiratorial way. The moment they realized I had turned around, they immediately changed expressions to something either pleasant or neutral and fell silent.

OOH she gave BACK his CHANGE, I thought in an annoying falsetto voice, which made me grin into my coffee. It was apparent that their prior friendliness to me had been mostly an act. I didn't mind. I was only there to get extra credit anyway.

The doors opened, and the first of the high school students filed in. Megan, Dave, and I directed them to their seats ("Those of you doing the first part, sit at the front."). Bethany and Deborah stood at the front of the room, nibbling on the remains of donuts that they had gotten who-knows-where. When the students were seated, the girls set down their donuts and passed out exams.

We had been told very explicitly that these high school students weren't allowed to speak while they were on campus (gotta keep those exams secret, right?), and these children looked as though it was true. They were solemn and tired-looking. The oldest one there couldn't have been more than sixteen.

It was depressing, and I didn't enjoy it. One girl in the third row of desks looked up at the front of the room, biting her pencil anxiously. I smiled at her.  She slowly smiled back, and, after tapping her face with the pencil, began selecting answers with greater enthusiasm than before. The next time someone looked up, my smile was received the same way. I felt the three other girls' eyes on me as I did this, but they said nothing to me and were content to mutter amongst themselves. By the end of the exam's allotted hour-and-a-half, the students didn't look completely miserable. A few even smiled at me on their way out of the room.

Bethany, Deborah, and Megan were sitting on the professor's desk in the front of the room, staring at their phones, when the next group of students arrived. They made no move to get up when Dave and I started seating people. He and I passed out the exams. I followed the same pattern I had begun with the first group of students: smiling when they looked up, walking around the room to make sure that no one tried to cheat, and sipping from my coffee all the while. By the end of this exam, the three girls were refusing to acknowledge my presence, opting instead to leave the room for long stretches of time.

The third and final group of high school students filed into Room 202. Deborah, Bethany, and Megan began to laugh and whisper to one another in the middle of the students' exam. They were charging their phones and had formed a semicircle where they were showing one another the source of their laughter. Dave glanced at me, but I was already in the process of crossing the room. I approached their group and said in a low voice, "They're trying to take an exam. Quiet down, please."

I received two blank expressions and one annoyed one in response. But they did quiet down for a time. It wasn't long until their silence was broken yet again and they were giggling loudly with the intent to distract. This happened twice more. With each interaction, the teenagers started looking up from their exams more frequently to watch.

Then it was over. We were informed that no more students would be arriving. Bethany, Deborah, and Megan promptly left. Dave and I had the honor of cleaning up the room by ourselves. With that done, I found the professor of horticulture in her office.

The door was open. She was seated at her computer, surrounded by piles of books and papers, focused intently on whatever she was typing. Her cat-eye glasses glittered from the screen's reflection. Plants hung in the windows and were displayed across shelves, some blooming, some not, all meticulously cared for.

"Professor," I said gently, trying not to startle her.

She jumped, her shawl catching on the side of her chair.

"Ye-yes," she stammered. Her voice still retained that mystical quality, though, in that moment, she resembled more a deer in headlights than someone who had experienced the otherworldly.

"I'm just wondering if there's anything else I'm supposed to do. I was part of the group in Room 202-"

"Oh," she smiled graciously. "No, you're done. Take a shirt."

"Take a-  What?"

"A shirt." She gestured vaguely behind her at a stack of large boxes. "They're back there somewhere."

I found the indicated box behind a large potted plant and began to rifle through it, finally selecting a blue shirt that pleased my inner twelve-year-old and made me exhale through my nose. It read Texas State Horticulture on the front and gardeners do it with hoes on the back. I left her office.

I stepped back into the exam room for a moment to tell Dave that he could leave, and thanked him for helping me. He responded in kind, and I went home.

Socks, Talks, and the Movement of Clocks

In hindsight, the high-five was probably a bad idea. I regret nothing.

You'd probably like some background for this statement, and there is one. It's incredibly lengthy, and troublesome to untangle, but I'll do my best. Here it is: I needed a passport to get to Europe.

Now that you've gotten the background, let's talk about the events leading up to what is arguably my  greatest moment.

"I need coffee," I said to no one in particular, who also happened to be Emily.

"You think we'll get food?"she asked, clearly paying as much attention to our conversation as I was.

"I dunno," I responded, removing presumably clean toddler underwear from on top of my satchel. Absentmindedly, I folded it and handed it to the three-year-old who clearly knew where it belonged better than I did. Tabitha raced off, and, judging from the piercing shriek that echoed from the now open bathroom door, I knew that she had put it away properly.

Mom strode in with Jonathan in tow.

"Let's go, are y'all ready?"

Resounding "yes ma'ams" sounded from everyone around me, who had all somehow managed to find the socks and/or shoes they had vehemently denied owning until now.

I slung the bag across my body, snagging my hair in the strap's buckle.

"Yep," I chimed in, eyes watering.

We piled into the van, and I quickly acclimated to my role as the Child Friendly DJ, playing only the best music from 2008: High School Musical. After suffering in mute horror for almost three minutes, Caleb, the bathroom shrieker extraordinaire, took over. His music taste is interesting. I've never heard rats playing banjos with plastic forks before.

We arrived at the post office, and only Mom and I got out. After all, it would only take about 20 minutes if the person was slow. We were the only customers in the building, and there were two tellers.

"I can take you," said a man on the left side of the enclosed desk. "Passport, eh?" he began, before vocalizing a series of what were definitely intended to be words.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Oh, yeah-!" he chirped, before very enthusiastically repeating what he said. I assume that's what he did, anyway. "-so anyway, I'm just gonna fix up this passport for you."

He gestured toward my passport photo and muttered something very happily to Mom about, "I had an old girlfriend-"

I understood nothing. His accent was too thick to grant me anything but the smallest discernment of his meaning. He continued his story, which involved him being in the army and dating his (captain's? colonel's? senior officer's?) daughter, who had blonde hair. He was very much amused, and found the entire thing hilarious. Heck, I might have too if it had been in English. Mom and I both laughed at what seemed to be appropriate times, although neither of us had the faintest idea where the story was going. Or where it had been, really. I was focusing intently on the shape of his mouth as it moved, trying to see the shape of his words and pair them with the warbling intonations he made. My temple throbbed. He had only two lines to fill out on the document, and would lower his pen to almost touch the paper... before lifting it up again because his supervisor had gone.

It was then that Mom started to laugh to herself. It was also then that I knew I wouldn't make it out of that tiny post office alive. Okay, maybe that's a little dramatic, but it seemed reasonable at the time. We stood in front of this man's desk, completely without any comprehension of the chatter he tirelessly maintained. Mom was beside herself, giggling in despair. She started playfully kicking at me under the desk as if to say Look at this guy. I have no idea what's happening and I can't believe we can't leave yet. The headache I'd acquired did not improve.

"-your wire hand," he clucked to me, raising his right hand.

"What?"

"-what a hand!" he cheerfully yapped.

This happened a few more times, with me asking slightly varied versions of the word what and him responding with incoherent mumbling.

I gave up. And leaned across the desk to give the best high-five ever.

He stood dumbstruck for a moment, just staring at me. I stared back. Then he grinned and asked, very clearly, "Do you swear that this information is correct? If so, raise your right hand and affirm that this is true."

Mom and I both got coffee afterwards. It was nice.

A Transcription of Transpired Events

It was January 9th, a bright morning. Well, it would be bright. In about two hours, if the sun ever decided to do me the courtesy of rising at a reasonable time. (It didn't.)

In the darkness, I walked with my bag slung across my body to the event that I was regrettably required to attend. My jacket, despite being a delightfully neon turquoise that promised to attract birds and small forest animals come the sunrise, did only an okay job of warding off the cold. Poor planning on my part, I suppose, but I didn't really mind, given that I was more concerned with not getting run over by a car. I'd review that concern around finals week.

After a few run-ins with a random armadillo, which all involved me squinting suspiciously at various bushes, I arrived at a sidewalk. It was uphill. I adjusted my bag, patted it to make sure my apples hadn't shifted (there's no strange and unexpected euphemism here, I literally had apples in my bag), and trekked upwards.

An hour after setting out, I made it to the student center at precisely ten minutes before I was required. I signed in to the auditorium and picked up a badge that I then affixed to my jacket. I located a seat near the exit in the hopes that I would be able to escape the confines of the building at the earliest available time. A speaker got on stage.

I spent the next few hours in a comfortable haze of boredom. The room became almost uncomfortably warm from the heat of people seated closely together. I counted the ceiling tiles. Then I multiplied them. Then I squared them. Just as I was attempting to find the prime multiples of the tiles' square, I was interrupted from my arguably dreadful musings by a loud voice emanating from the speaker system.

"If everyone would just go and perform one of the tasks on the sheet you've gotten, that'd be ah-maze-ing. Also, be back by 10:30 or you won't be able to register because we'll mark your name off this list. 'Kay, have fun, y'all!"

Note to self: if you want to stop tardiness and absences: just threaten people! I thought. Being forced into participation really brings out the best in me. I wasn't the least bit interested in "uncovering the rich history of the university" or "experiencing the diversity of disciplines available through faculty and staff". So I didn't. Instead, I wandered around the buildings for the allotted time, probably (read: definitely) into locations that I wasn't supposed to be yet.

The rest of the day followed the same sort of pattern. Hours of lectures, sandwiched between a brief period of respite where I wandered campus, charged my phone, and/or ate apples in the women's bathroom. The bathroom thing was a bit strange. The more apples I managed to conjure up from my bag, the more the other women in the bathroom stared at me like I was crazy. They may have had a point, but I got to eat, so who's the real winner here?

Finally, at 5 pm, the lectures were done and I had only one more objective: get the physical copy of my ID, and leave. I was excited. By this time, I had no more apples, so my bag was light, which meant that I could probably get home in half the time! Yeah, I was that ready to get out of there. Somehow, I was the only person besides staff in the ID room when it came time for me to retrieve it. 

Being the only person, the staff were all super excited to see me. As I was almost giddy from the elation brought by my proximity to freedom, I went through the queue grinning like a fool, and happily chatted with each person as I walked by. 

The last person I had to talk with before getting my ID was a bearded man in a maroon shirt. He began to tell me about all of the functions that my ID card had as a student and handed it over for me to study as he talked. As I looked at it, he subtly mentioned "-and you can also use it for transactions at Wells Fargo."

Not looking up from the card, I asked the first question that occurred to me:

"Wasn't Wells Fargo the bank that had a huge scandal a while back?"

He went silent, and I looked up. As I did, my gaze landed on the bold lettering written across his shirt which read... Wells Fargo.

Crap. 

I panicked internally for half of a heartbeat (WHO BRINGS UP A SCANDAL IN SOMEONE'S JOB?? YOU DID), but somehow managed to do damage control. I don't know what I said. I don't know how I said it. But I made the guy laugh, and the previously tense and somewhat awkward silence was broken. It took all I had in me to casually walk out of the building, though all was now well. I'd be lying if I said I didn't get in a lot of cardio on my way home.

Exercise: a real life alternative to "running away from your problems".

4 Facts About Crocheting: Number 3 Will Shock You!

      Some people would say that variegated yarn, despite its visual interest, should be used sparingly and carefully.

      I am not one of those people.

      When I use variegated yarn, I use it on EVERYTHING. Making some plain vanilla socks? BOOM. Throw some stripes at it. Making some super detailed socks that should probably be crafted in a single and very particular color so as to avoid excessive eyeball stimulation? BOOM. Slap some stripes on it.

      It's for this reason that my latest finished project, another pattern from the Joy of Sox book, is... A lot to look at. In person, it's just interesting to look at. In this photograph, it's like trying to wash an argumentative octopus in a bathtub with your dog; it's impossible to focus on, and you might just lose an eye if you stare for too long.

      Nevertheless, this project was a joy to make, and the pattern was easy to memorize.

      My next foray into variegation led me to what I can only term as a masterpiece of art. It's the ultimate beauty, surpassing even Michelangelo's David and Beautiful Squidward in its perfection.

      It's beyond comparison to anything I, a mere mortal, can conceptualize or articulate. It's a striped, two-headed monkey.

      You may be thinking, "Why on Earth would anyone in their right mind decide that making a two-headed monkey is a good allocation of free time?" And that's an excellent question.

      As it's made with sock yarn, I won't be able to use my cute little safety eyes to complete it. I may end up using buttons, but that always has the possibility of shaping my creations into nightmare creatures that bask in the glow of hellfire. I mean, they're still cute, but they aren't exactly something I'd want staring at me through the darkness at three in the morning.

      Now that I've concluded my descriptions of the projects that have given me no grief, allow me a brief moment to collect myself in preparation for this next one. I'll begin with some undeniable facts.

Fact #1: Acrylic yarn is bad.

Fact #2: Cheap yarn is bad.

Fact #3: I bought a combination of the above.

Fact #4: I feel absolutely victimized by the atrocity that is this color scheme. 

      This project is something that I started as a sort of "test run", if you will. I was asked to create a one-size-fits-all vest with the back being a bandanna, and the front constructed out of yarn.  I'm going to have to experiment a good deal with this, so I went to Goodwill and grabbed the cheapest and crappiest yarn I could unwittingly destroy without guilt. Or wittingly destroy without guilt. Fire is an option.

      I'm a bit concerned that the vest won't sit well, given that fabric made with yarn is considerably more dense and heavy than that made with thread. It's possible that I could arrange for the bulk of the weight to be distributed around the shoulders, but one small mistake with that method could bring back the shoulder pad look from the eighties, and I don't think the world is ready for that level of high fashion.