Back in the days of yore, Dye-O-Rama spread out across the earth. The contagious properties of this -a-long had infected me. Mind you, it was only a mild case, and I did not join. Still, skein after skein of lovely yarn assaulted the senses until I could take it no more. I had to dye. A lone white ball of Brown Sheep Nature Spun became Seedless Watermelon by way of Kool Aid. I knit the socks up on dpns, first one, then the other. Ah, there is danger enough in knitting footies one at a time with a hand-dyed, can’t replicate it, fifty-gram ball of yarn. But that is what I did. The first sock was completed, and I mastered the magic cast-on with the second. When my gauge took a sudden and unexpected turn for the worse, I ripped back and re-knit. I brought my knitting along to what would be a nerve-wracking family get-together. I don’t really swim too well. I’ve been told that rocks can float more easily than I. Water can make me a bit nervous. It had been decided that we would all be out on the pier. I knit up the foot; I turned the heel. The ankle decreases were worked, and I began the ribbing. I could not help but notice the dwindling ball of yarn. I pressed on, my mental fortitude tested by this (the colors are much better in real life):
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What with all the preparatory training, you know I had to do something to jinx myself a bit. I've already created and decorated the mailer which will carry the Sock Wars socks to their target. Yes, this assumes that I will kill before I am killed. I would show a picture of the packaging, but I want it to be a surprise for dying. That's right, my unknown one, you are already dying. I shall slay you. Time to get off this roller coaster, for now.