My cat is like a tiny, fat, furry person.

Right now she's laying on her back on Ruth's office chair. Her head is hanging off the front edge and she's just staring at me. Oooh! She just stretched her front paws out like little arms!

I wish I had a camera right now.

So, I suddenly find myself in the midst of a crisis of confidence. I am convinced I should just save everyone the trouble and stop writing all together. Not because of the feedback I receive, or the lack thereof, or because I am tired of fandom and writing. No, at this moment I firmly believe I am the most sucktastic writer in all the world. My plots are non-existent, my style awkward, and my prose decidedly purple. I'm not funny or clever or insightful or poignant or thorough or anything else used to describe any number of genre writers. Additionally, when I do manage to find a dozen words to string together, it takes me several months to even finish composing.

I find it a miracle I am able to string words together coherently enough to create this entry, frankly.

And this isn't a call for positive feedback or anything like that because at this point, I'll just assume it's pity and that you've only read my stories because I either know you and you feel you have to or because I've read yours and you've been guilted into reading mine.

Even knowing this is probably due to a pre-menstrual hormone surge doesn't seem to help matters.

To sum up, I suck.

**

In other disturbing news, I seem to be working I the Land of White Tights. That's right, my friends. The women here seem to find opaque white tights to be an acceptable fashion accessory. Now, I'm not the most stylish person in the world, but that's just not right.

I've finally added my CSI and WaT stories to my website.

ETA: I need CSI pic sites, people. Come on, help a girl out.