It'd be a lie to say my apartment is the cleanest. It'd be a lie to say it's tidy. Infact, it'd almost be a lie to say that I can tell you, by looking, what colour my carpet is.
There is yarn everywhere at the moment.
That's what "working on a book" seems to do to my mind. All writing, no vacuuming; and up until this moment, the boyfriend's complaints that he couldn't find any of his stuiff under all of my stuff and the fact that not a single room could be crossed in a straight line without the possibility of walking on a crochet hook hasn't bothered me that much.
Love me, love my yarn-splosion.
But now, I can't find any of my stuff under all of my stuff!
I have a small, pink, lace-weight, half-finished glove... somewhere in here and I can't find it!