and from darker times...

I stumbled upon this angrily scribbled lament recently and since it's pretty topical thought it would be well placed here. I wrote it when I was living at home and working about 4 jobs, one of which was copywriting for about 0.000004p a word for a medical company. I think this might've have had something to do with my somewhat negative state of mind.

Maybe I'm actually just rubbish at making things. Sewing is a complete and total nightmare - I seem to be incapable of getting it anything but wrong. I thought you were supposed to get better at these things? That's a damned lie. And now I have to write a dozen essays on BSE. BSE?! It's so 1990s.

And today I melted the rug. The rug that dad just bought to cover the once-cream-now-brown carpet and that's been in the house less than 24 hours; special Steph comes along and irons it. I was adding the final errors to a bag I was destroying, and I needed to iron the wonky, badly-stitched seams 'flat'. Flat! HA! Instead I ended up with a blackened plastic coating on the iron that was smoking like buggery and smelled of death. Cue crazed cursing panic, me, throwing the window open on my cell-of-a-bedroom while frantically flapping the ragged excuse of a bag in an attempt to dispel noxious fumes of melted nylon before Dad's primeval sense of smell brought him charging up the stairs with a fire extinguisher. If we had a fire extinguisher. Probably he'd just bring his wrath. 

Now there's a patch of rug that's suspiciously darker than the rest, flat as anything, and decidedly crunchy underfoot. It's like walking on wire wool. That's not really a quality I'm looking for, in a rug.

So, I threw the 'bag' in the bin, and proceeded to alter a dress (ie. make it worse than before). Thus have I acquired the sneaking suspicion that, actually, I'm rubbish. And so is craft.