surroundings: the exposed process of a blog post

There is a kitten in my lap.

I'm in a Dad Office, house-sitting for a strangely put-together-looking family of four. There's a corgi with separation anxiety and a fat orange cat who never shows up and a "rambunctious" calico kitten whose softness can only be described by a drawing rubbed down with the backend of a pencil, or a photograph pulled up on Photoshop with the contrast brought down a whole lot.

It smells good in here. Like Good Dad. It's a strange smell: comfort and safety, combined with middle-aged man. Kind of moth-y. There's a swivel chair and a closet of old coats and a notepad and jar of paper clips and pens. It's extremely stereotypical, with files and folders and Post-it notes. A book about volcanoes. Why is th... what...?

Cats are so warm. I'm bad at drawing cats. They're too fluid, the line of them is too continuous. I can't draw women, either. But I can draw dogs! And men. Even self-portrait-ish stuff, I draw myself as a dude just because their lines are easier. That paragraph has too many short sentences. Christie would be disappointed.

The kitten is mewing in its sleep, and I'm worried the keyboard is too loud. (That's a compound sentence, but it wasn't before I added the comma.)

I just realized I can't move. I have nothing profound to say today. I already made a post this morning about Victoria's Secret and mirrors and the patriarchy but decided against posting it. I keep doing that... not posting stuff. I do make the posts, they're just too much to publish. It's like I'm stuck in this spiral, where no matter what I talk about, or how long I talk about it, I always end up on the same subject. And I don't want to blog about that subject.

So I will blog about my surroundings. If you're still reading this, congratulations on dedication. Every window is open and this morning two guys were yelling outside and one of them said, "AT LEAST I'M NOT A RAGING ALCOHOLIC!" but he yelled it in a way and at a volume decibel that made him sound a lot like a raging alcoholic.

The trees look sick. All of them. The corgi is under the desk, with infinite enthusiasm to see me at any given moment.

The cat's just really sleepy, still sprawled across my lap. I can't move. She's so small, and delicate... I should figure out how to draw cats. And women. Nah, women are scary. Um, hm. Something profound about cats... They're animals, with teeth, and instincts. So are dogs. Without size and circumstance, they'd just eat each other. And us. Worth reading? Something to think about?

Oh, I'm not a prophet. I've got nothing new to say, I'm fifteen, you could do better. It's a beautiful day. The cat is awake, and watching me type. I don't think she likes me, I'm just warm. Wait. That's it! THAT'S THE PROFOUND CONCLUSION! THE RELATIVE ANSWER I'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR! Oh, it's like when people touch me meaning to touch someone else, it's got nothing to do with me, I'm just easily available! Oh! Oh.

Is that sad?

I don't think so... I mean, I like kittens sleeping on my lap. They're warm too. But... they don't really, love me, they just sleep with me.

There ya have it, revelation. Brought to you by yours truly. Now I have to wrap it up with the punchline that ties everything together:

Thank you for caring enough about the life of Shady to read something this mindless. But the art is always better than the artist, unless you happen to do it right.