Cats ruin more writing this way

I swear. There are some days when you just can't get a break.

Alice is on my lap right now, purring and curled up, the most picturesque cat you've ever seen. You'd think she was a darling if you walked into the room and saw her this way. You'd be mostly right. But for the last five minutes she has been both sweet and a royal pain-in-the-ass.

Let me walk you through my cats' rituals.

First we have Alice. She may be slightly better at being a lap-cat than her brother, but it comes at a higher cost. You have to devote at least the first five minutes of her lap-time to her being in your face. She will get up on your shoulders, paw at your chin, breathe awfulness into your nose and generally make a nuisance of herself. She might settle down eventually but often she will either jump off your lap by then or you'll get sick of her licking you OCD-style in the same spot until your arm is raw.

Cheshire is another story. If you can get him to calm down and stop pulling books off the shelves? He's awesome. But he never stops doing that. It is his reason for existence and possibly the thing he enjoys most in the world.

I set out to write this entry as an example and an excuse: how the cats distract me from writing and why I suck at writing.

Turns out I just needed to write about them.