Underneath the shell is an angry fire, but who's the first to jump on the pyre?

Tangled webs seem to be the only variety that I can dependably weave, but these spinnerets just keep on working overtime, spitting out thread after silken thread. These legs, tirelessly placing each strand, are flagging ever so slightly I think, and maybe that goes a short way toward explaining the labyrinth they have created... and maybe the real truth of it is that there is no explanation at all. Orderly arrangements imply reason; messes to this degree imply a consummate lack of of it. What this gossamer netting lacks in rational or aesthetic merit, though, of course it makes up for in that most coveted of consolation prizes: character! Yes — character — the world's best backhanded compliment, the populace's favorite participation trophy, well... that I have in abundance. Besides, what would I do with a masterpiece of embroidery other than incite the envy and anger of Athena? History has shown that I am quite at home in the chaotic cocoon of my skeins, and even more so in the tattered cobwebs relegated to the rafters.