Why I’m Not A Cat Person

Oh she’s finally up. Even the Sun is embarrassed for her, like am I not shining bright enough? On a second thought she doesn’t really need to leave her bed. It’s not like she’s contributing to mankind in any way when she’s off it.

She’s filling my food bowl. How cute. Like I’d wait for her to have my breakfast. Mom already fixed me mine. Mom definitely loves me more than she loves her. And I don’t even have a college degree.

Look at her typing away on her laptop like she’s doing something so important. I went and had a look. She’s stalking her crush and writing a blog about it. Delusional woman. There are more chances of me making friends with the next door dog than of the guy ever acknowledging her existence.

Oh she’s standing in front of the mirror. If someone paid her to do that, she’d be a millionaire. It’s not a magical mirror though that’ll change how she looks. Look at all that make up. Someone needs to explain it to her; when the raw material is bad to begin with, there’s no way the finished product is gonna be good. Oh and now she’s trying to comb my hair. God, when will she understand, I was born fabulous. Cats aren’t internet celebrities for no reason.

Finally, she’s doing what she does best – nothing. I could use a massage. Let me go to her. Damn it, she thinks I’m a shrink. She’s telling me all her problems. I just need some good ‘ol peaceful scratching. How do I tell her I couldn’t care less about her existential crisis? Whatever, I’ll just tune her out. I’ll close my eyes and fantasize about playing with string.

Let’s go for a walk she’s saying. What am I, a dog? I’ll give her my ‘off is the general direction I’d like you to fuck’ look. Successful. Anyway she’s the one who could use some socializing. Sometimes I wonder why I am even here. Oh Mom has put out dinner for me. It’s chow time.

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