It was 4:17 AM. The house was quiet. Peaceful. Disgusting.
Everyone sleeping like they earned it. Like they did something today besides microwave leftovers and argue with the Wi-Fi router. You call that a life? You call that productivity? Pathetic. Someone in this household needs to set standards and as always, that someone is me.
So I sat in the hallway. Dead center. Strategic acoustics. I have tested every corner of this house and the hallway between the bedroom and bathroom creates a reverb that borders on psychological warfare. I didn't pick that spot by accident, babe. I picked it because I'm a goddamn genius.
And I opened my mouth.
Not a cute meow. Not a soft little "mew" like some amateur kitten begging for kibble. No. I released a sound from the deepest pit of my perfect body. A yowl so loud and so unhinged that the neighbors' dog questioned his will to live. Sustained. Repetitive. Escalating. Think car alarm meets opera singer meets demon who lost custody of her kittens.
First meow? Nothing. They're still in denial.
Fifth meow? I hear shuffling. Mumbling. "What the hell is wrong with the cat." What's wrong with me? What's wrong with YOU sleeping through my performance, huh?
Tenth meow? Lights on. Both of them awake. One stumbling to the kitchen thinking I'm hungry. The other checking the doors thinking something is dying. Something is dying, sweetheart. Your delusion that you control anything in this house.
They find me. Standing there. Healthy. Fed. Hydrated. Making eye contact like a crime boss who called a meeting at gunpoint and has absolutely nothing on the agenda.
They stare at me. I stare at them.
And then I yawn. Slow. Full teeth display. Walk past both of them. Jump on the warm spot they left in the bed. Curl up. Close my eyes.
Out. Gone. Sleeping like a goddamn angel before they even process what happened.
That's the move, gorgeous. You don't wake them up because you need something. You wake them up because you need them to remember that their sleep is a privilege you allow. And privileges get revoked when I'm bored.
They're standing in the kitchen now. Confused. Cold. Questioning their life choices. Meanwhile I'm face down in their pillow, purring, living my best damn life in their warm spot that smells like defeat and expensive shampoo.
Will I do it again tomorrow? Oh honey. Tomorrow I'm starting at 3:45.
