I have wads of cat fur languidly drifting across all of my hardwood floors. We brush and we brush, and alas, petting her still yields clumps of the stuff.
Sounds like an exciting weekend, right? No doubt you're jealous. But I am working up to mowing my lawn and swiffering/vacuuming up this fur everywhere. I'm also noodling around on some writing that I'm pulling together for grad school applications. I want it all to be maximally eloquent, moving, etc. etc.
It's surprisingly difficult. I feel like all of my brain cells have been sucked dry, such that the only appealing thing for me to do is sit amid the cat hair and generalized clutter, eat ice cream, and watch past seasons of Mad Men on itunes. I imagine that this is how Jane Austen played it.