I want to talk about my cat. Her name is Misha, but I call her Kitty. Original, huh? I want to be my cat so bad. She has the best life. She stays at home every day while I have to go to work. She's fed treats. She sleeps most of the day away. It's her favorite pastime. She has all sorts of places to sleep. Sometimes she lays stretched out on her back, languid and warm, on the blue rag rug in the computer room. Other times she makes her bed on Kyle's barrel chair, which she is slowly destroying with her clandestine scratching. Last night she showed up all curled into a ball high up in an open box of books I haven't unpacked from the move yet. And of course, she likes to sleep with me. Although she doesn't really sleep with me anymore. She just jumps on the bed and steps on my chest and licks my face. Yes, my cat is very affectionate. Another one of her choice sleeping spots is the top of my monitor, only when it's on and I'm in front of it though. But I don't like her to sit there. All that radiation, she might get a tumor, and lord only knows she's shedding a ton of her fine, silky fur down into the vent. That can't be good for my monitor. My kitty has the life. She gets her belly scratched, she gets fed, she doesn't have to work, she sleeps all day, she hasn't a care in the world. Sometimes I look into her big golden eyes and wonder, "What is she thinking? Does she know how lucky she is?" She purrs and her eyes slowly shut. Yeah, she knows.