yarn vomit + KSH + very tired, sick knitter + sweaty hands + dropped stitch = putting KSH into stash gulag at BOTTOM of lace weight bin, muttering very bad words and throwing the circular needles across the room, thus startling and offending the cat.
F*ck you very much. I hate you. You have an utterly undeserved reputation for wonderfulness. You sit there in your ball and you look all fluffery and alluring but it is a LIE. I bought you in a frenzy of yarn-lust fueled excitement and like so many first dates gone horribly wrong, you have turned out to be nothing but drama under a pretty facade. That's right. Pretend all you want. I really know that you feel unappealingly crunchy, you stick together, you are fussy, high maintenance, and you MOCK MY PAIN.
Die in a fire.