Thread

It takes a long time to knit a sweater. Longer if it there is a hole that is comming undone.

My fingers are poised and ready for action. They sit still, hovering. Like someone reading the newspaper over my shoulder, they annoy me. Capable, strong fingers. I look at their dexterious strength. Didgits, ten of them. Knuckles and oposable thumbs, my hands are in motion. My mind too. It flits across the horizen of broken conversations. Life, it seems, is a melodrama. In and out of lies, my eyes pretend to read while my ears traverse the room. That's that.
Arguing with a six year old is futile. Especially if it's not yours. Today, I almost cried when the four year old told me he hadn't invited me to his birthday party. I guess we're not such good friends. Here is the striking point, one should not be hurt by other's actions. Sadly I must admit that I am repeatedly stung by the reprimand of a careless tounge. I have been told that I have thin skin, am overly sensitive, take things personally. How else am I to take something? WTF is the matter with being sensitive?
Yes, I see that in extreme cases it could come as a fault. One should never cry over the computerized voice at AT&T. "Why does she keep asking me the same questions? I'm not that thick. Stop talking to me!" I yell, flinging my phone into the washing machine. This action has not one, but two flaws. The first being a ruined phone. The second being placed at the beginning of the que (after replacing cette phone).