It's a quarter to seven. The laptop is on the coffee table. I am seated on the sofa. An old episode (sorry, classic episode) of MythBusters found somewhere online is playing on the television. I am trying to write something on the blog. A familiar situation, surely, considering I've written a lot about trying to write. You would know this, right? You're still following this, right?

But this isn't what I was supposed to write about.

Now, thankfully, what I wanted to write about is still in my head. So far. I think it'll hold, because my social media feeds still yields triggers - I mean, writing triggers, not the other kind. And yes, the thing about me being too busy these days is true, which is why I was looking forward to this little break, to sitting down and getting all those thoughts into this screen.

No, he has the zoomies.

It's that time of the night, after all. He's had his dinner, and I've had mine. I had delivery tonight because I was at the office this morning and didn't feel like cooking. Already, that's a bit of a disruption. And then there's the fact that I have the laptop on the coffee table and not on the desk. Bonkey already gets vocal when I'm still on the computer at night. What more when I'm on the computer at night in a different part of the house?

Just last week I realized we had a new thing as overlord and slave. It's painful, though, considering I'm in my mid-30s and am already starting to lose my body's integrity. But after lunch time, when I hear him meow, I get off my office chair - it's the exact same chair that used to be here, just thought this needed some color commentary - and get down on all fours, and crawl like a baby. Well, kind of. I only take one step or two, or sometimes not at all. Almost instantly, Bonkey would start walking towards me, meowing, as if talking to me. He'd then walk around me, as if inspecting me - but, really, I can feel he's brushing himself against me. They say it's the cat marking you, and then, it's the car endearing itself to you. I stoop down a little more, until my face is almost at the same level as Bonkey's, and he would brush his nose against mine.

I did that tonight. It's like our new way to talk, or maybe, our new way to play, outside of that tattered duck toy that's really made for dogs, and those rattling things. It doesn't fully placate him. He's still a cat. He climbs up one of the tables - or, worse, the top of the fridge, the top of the containers on top of the fridge, something he somehow discovered while I was away from the house and my sister was watching over him - and vaguely threatens to push something off. Like that one alcohol dispenser by the door. At least it still works.

This goes on for ten, maybe fifteen minutes. He goes to the room to sleep, at least for the next two hours. And that's why I'm writing, now with the news instead of MythBusters in the background. This narrow window is when I can wash my dishes, clean stuff up, relax a bit, measure my blood pressure, and go to the bedroom. I now go to sleep at around nine; my cat asks me to go to bed the moment the sun sets. You can imagine why I don't have the time to put down whatever I meant to write down here, yeah?

But I'm writing, sure. But only because I had delivery for dinner. It frees up some of my time, but the clock is still ticking. No more excuses. I should clean up.