The Escape Goat

I like to blame my cats.

For everything.

I'm sorry...I can't reach the phone or my calendar or my computer because i am trapped on the couch under two warm, sleeping cats. Of course this means I can't work, or make a date with someone or any other thing that resembles any form of exertion.

God forbid i wake the sleeping giants. they will eat the golden goose or the golden egg or whatever it is the giant from Jack and the beanstalk would eat. Small children? Ones hopes and dreams? i shudder to think.

So i let them sleep. and i postpone the inevitable, which for me, most often is writing. and this here blogging thingy doesn't count. I'm referring specifically to the things i am 'supposed' to write. the things i get paid for. But somehow those things seem so unwieldy that warming up seems like a reasonable alternative. and just now my cats have left me for some unseen foe, so i consider my options:

i could re-watch the entire TV series felicity. Again. The writing is so good, and the actors are so cute and surely, this will inspire me to great heights.

I could organize my Netflix movie list by category, but calling that work is a stretch, even to me.

So here i am.

looking for an escape.

Or an escape goat, as my friend Sarah H once relayed as part of a silly story.

Here, kitty kitty.