Please be patient, you said.
I told you I felt like Penelope waiting for Odysseus to come back from war.
Weaving and unweaving.
Or in my case knitting and unknitting.
But don't you think at some point a modern-day Penelope, waiting for Odysseus to text her, to give her some sliver of hope he was actually returning, would've just said, "aw, fuck it"?
Because that's where I'm at.
That scarf where every stitch was knit with love?
Wadded up in bag in a drawer.
Can't bear to look at it.
I suppose that makes me a half-assed Penelope.
Or, if I'm being honest with myself, just an ass.