I might be an artist if I were willing to give up my breakfast

This instinct to eat garbage that saved her from certain death early in life has not relaxed its hold on my cat. And "garbage" in this case clearly means anything she was not meant to eat. And this morning she has her eye on my breakfast. I keep thinking, if my instinct were to grab my camera instead of my plate, this little dance we're doing would result in some interesting pictures. And then, if I were too late, the trail left behind as she drags my tortilla, leaving salsa and sour cream all over my desk, weaving between piles of books and old office supplies, would be like the greatest homage to Family Circus ever. But a girl can't be faulted for wanting to eat (or, really, not wanting to clean), can she?