Stash-dependent and Nonsense Knits

It's the new year, so now is as good a time as any to make large confessions that I can always regret later.
My name is Flossie, and I'm a stashaholic.
You know this. I've gone on and on, at length, about my problems stashing yarn. Not actual problems stashing it—although space is becoming an issue—but real-life addiction problems.
I came to a realization the other night.
I was standing outside my house, looking up at my office window. My blinds are always drawn all the way up to let in as much light as possible. I even keep them open at night, I guess because I think I'm invisible.
I looked up, and saw this.

So... you can see my stash from outside. It's basically vaulted way up against the ceiling, in vintage gym baskets.

"My ceiling is peeling!" - Anonymous Poet
I had to get it off the ground, because the ground is full. My shelves are full. The closet is full. I have no more physical space at human level, so I had to take to the trees like a goddamn monkey.
Which makes sense, because this is my monkey brain at work, buying more yarn than I rightly know what to do with.
It's got to stop.

It doesn't have to stop because you can have too much yarn. We all know you can't have too much yarn—that's been established.
It has to stop because I'm buying yarn without intention. I am not buying yarn and thinking, "Oh this will make a nice hat, or cowl, or pair of fingerless mitts."
I only just realized this, mind you. That I am buying yarn based on how pretty it is, and nothing else. Which is complete and utter nonsense. Especially because now I have yarn that I look at and think, "Gee, that's not THAT pretty."
And it's not just color, it's the having it. I'm buying yarn to put it on display. I'm buying yarn, to look at yarn. To literally say to myself, "Look at all this yarn you have. You have a lot of yarn. Look at how pretty it looks scattered all over this room."
What I should be saying to myself is, "Look at all this yarn you have. You're going to die in this yarn. This yarn is going to eat you alive or bury you and no one will find you until your decaying corpse starts to stink and gag the neighbors next door."
The worst part is, do you know to what all this leads? Nonsense knits. Knits that are being knit for the sake of eating yarn, knits that are complete and utter nonsense. I have become the Galactus of Yarns, just swallowing them up and spitting them out as finished projects that don't even make a lot of sense.

I know what you're thinking: "What do you mean they don't make sense? How can a finished project not make sense?"

The Nonsense Twinkle Blanket
I had all this cranberry Twinkle in The Stash that I wanted to make into a Queen-size blanket.
Yegads! This yarn actually had an intention!

Yeah, it did. But then my little brother needed a cowl for some girl, so without any forethought whatsoever, I used some of that cranberry Twinkle to make it... and didn't have enough for the size blanket I wanted to make. So what did I do? I took this really ugly skein of weird greenish brown Twinkle (which was originally going to be a hat for The Doo, but he hated it, so it was ripped out, balled up, and thrown into The Stash), and I plopped it into this cranberry Twinkle blanket. And not even in the middle, mind you. At a certain point, I just started knitting with it. It is asymmetrical nonsense.

You see, I just stopped caring. I was so anxious to get this Twinkle the hell out of my stash, it didn't matter that it was nonsense. It didn't matter that there was a weird, green-brown splodge in the middle of a perfectly good cranberry blanket. I didn't care anymore. I didn't even do a gauge. I just wanted the yarn to be a blanket and stop being in my pile of yarn, and it didn't matter how ugly or weird it was going to be, as long as it was a blanket and I could sleep under it.
The Doo loves it. Or so he says.
I think that's what this year is going to be. The Year of Nonsense Knitting. The Year of Getting It The Hell Outta My Stash.
I'm telling you this now, because tomorrow is Vogue Knitting Live. And yes, I'm going. And yes, there is yarn I want to buy. And yes, I'm going to buy it.
But not without intention. I have to have something I'm going to make—something definite—or I can't buy anything. I can't. I will not make another ugly asymmetrical nonsense blanket. I can't.

I have to knit The Stash this year.

One down. A billion to go.


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