We all have our little failings, right? Yes? Hello?
I am shamefully addicted to yarn and suffer from a physical longing for it that cripples me with drooly lust. But not just any yarn, oh no. It must be hand-dyed sock yarn, that users and pushers describe with words like sumptous and smooshy and delicious and decadent. Yarns that knit up into fantastical stripes and have such a tight twist that they don't need a nylon blend to keep their shape and not wear out. Yarns like this and this and this and this, and this (scroll down) and, especially, this. Sock clubs: 29 days of torture for one day of ecstasy. One hank for one pair of socks or mittens or a scarf or hat. Single skein satisfaction all for the low, low price of my soul.