Painful perfection

Sitting on the floor, my back to the sun.
My kittens are sprawled around me, kitten-like.

A cup of hot coffee, from yesterday, spiked with Peppermint Mocha creamer.
It tastes like perfection going down, but it leaves a horrible after-taste in my mouth.

I am anxious to get dressed: I have library books waiting for me. Twilight and New Moon. Again. Because I'm hooked.

Reading Twilight is like my Peppermint Mocha coffee in reverse: it tastes gritty going down (totally holding back from being snotty about Stephenie Meyer's writing, see how I'm growing?) but leaves a delicious, silky after-taste once I've swallowed it.

I don't quite understand this. I dislike so much about these books even as I love them.

I suppose it's like my coffee creamer: I continue sipping even though it makes me want to gag after I swallow it.

I should go, get started on my day. But I've waited this long, and the sun feels good on my back. My kittens are soft under my hand, and my head is throbbing with a perfectly vicious headache that threatens to tear my skull apart the moment I move.

So I sit, enjoying the sun and the fur and yummy-horrible coffee and a terrible headache. For just a few minutes before I have to face the partly sunny with a slight wind day outside.