The morning was nice and the cat decided to stay outside when I left for work, which was good because the real estate brokers came in later when I was gone to look the place over in preparation for a Sunday showing. A drag. I just hope they get it sold so I know whether the new owners will kick me out or not. Plan to move, kid. I know. I know. But moving, man. I'd rather be contemplating a prefrontal lobotomy.

The cat is lying to the left of my keyboard, his tail tucked between his rear legs and the keys, his head resting on my left arm up near the elbow, his left paw draped over the arm just above the watch. I'm wearing a sweater and he seems comfortable enough, he looks up every now and then as if he's hearing something he needs to know about, but he's settling in to what has become an evening routine as I'm typing. I've learned to type quite well with a cat on my arm. He seems a little skitterish. I wonder what happened today at the open house. He was inside when I returned and I suspect the broker made it a point to let him in when the others left. She called me last night to talk about the condition of my housekeeping, but I realized she liked cats and she was more worried about Mr. Wuss and how he'd handle their presence than she was about an unmade bed or dirty dishes.

Probably not the best attitude to have when your business is selling real estate, but I have to think maybe I'll be more civilized with the woman and bend more than I might otherwise. Can't hurt to know someone's looking out for the little turkey in my absence, even if I don't think there's a real problem.

You're writing this because you've run out of things to say this evening, aren't you Prop?

Yeah, maybe so.

You might dig up a photograph for the banner, take a break. Maybe something will occur.

OK. Pass the negatives.

I got an email today saying my journal would be reviewed in the March 19th Launch section of Diarist.net. That's nice, but it occurs to me my entry for today and certainly for tomorrow should be pretty zooty and here I'm writing about my cat half nodding out on the keyboard. Makes sense, somehow, given my history, but it's not how you make the bucks and get the girls. Even the photographs seem plain and simple.