Your name is Dane Lauzet and you are an undiagnosed, alcoholic writer with a soft spot for cats. While your writing is not mainstream, it isn't exactly unpopular either. If your name were to be told to a group of people, it's likely that a few of them would know of you or have at least heard of your name somewhere before. You're very satisfied with where you are now in your career, you love to write and to be acknowledged.
Appearance-wise, you are five feet, eight inches tall with lightly tanned skin and dirty blond hair. You are almost always seen wearing a black suit with a dress shirt as purple as your eyes, though today you've decided to wear a simple, fitted black turtleneck with black jeans. Regardless, you decide to keep your black aviators atop your head. There's no real purpose for them other than to look cool since you don't often comb your side-swept bangs out of your face. Well, other than the occasional convenience to you there isn't any other purpose. You really just want to impress and intimidate people before they find out how dorky you are.
Only moments ago you received a call from your friend, Roseanne Jackson, or Roz as she prefers to be called. It's actually very rare that she dials your number in favor of just walking into your house unannounced, so when you heard her voice on the other line you could only presume that it was something serious she needed your help with. As you pet one of your two cats, Lagoon, she described to you that she had a stomach virus and asked you to help watch over her because you're her closest friend. You try to imagine it that way because all she actually told you was "Stomach virus. Get your pretentious ass over here and be my mother for a couple days." She never really had a way with words, but they definitely were to your liking, you sad, lonely man.
You take your time cleaning up the papers and books off of your bed because you know she isn't in any immediate danger, and you also have to let your excitement die down since over the phone you're sure you may have sounded a bit more enthusiastic about this opportunity than necessary. Sighing, you know that she probably picked up on that to use against you for later.
As you finish jogging down the steps and begin trying to locate your keys, you feel a persistent nudging at your leg. Looking to the floor, you discover that it's your other cat, Perfume, and she wants some love from you. You squat down and spend a few moments petting her, suddenly feeling very guilty, you planned to leave without even coming up with a plan for what to do with your cats. You're such an awful pet owner.