In spite of the three chests of drawers currently in my bedroom, I’ve taken to an unfortunate habit of treating my floor the same way I treat all other flat surfaces. Namely, by covering it in stuff. In this case, laundry. Clean laundry. (Or was-clean, rather, as Tanith and Tanaquil have been having a field day curling up in the unfolded towels, purring as they burrow between my shirts and scattered pairs of underwear, getting bits of fur on absolutely every bit of cloth possible.) This leads to a problem in the early morning, when it appears I can function, but deep down I am really not so full of sense. This leads to realizing that the towel I blearily grabbed for the shower is, in fact, a cat, or that the shirt I’m looking for has been somehow twisted through of one of David’s socks.