I hate being a cat

In the grand scheme of things I haven’t really been a cat all that long. Maybe two, three hundred years…it’s easy to lose track of time when you spend centuries lounging in the sunny spots of whatever room you happen to find yourself in. Before being a cat I was a Killer Whale, now that was a body! I was king of the sea, nobody ever touched my belly. Even before that I was a Panda bear or something. Honestly, I don’t even remember anymore. Anyway that’s all moot as I am currently a small cat, not even a big cat. Whatever.

Anyway, where was I? I had some catnip last night and everything’s still a blur. Oh yea, I mean I’m a cat right so I’m doing my regular cat thing, lounging around in the sun thinking about five billion years from now when the sun expands into a red giant and I have to start all over again, when out of nowhere some dirty human in some run down car decides I look lonely and need a home. Me! Need some human’s help? Please.

Yea so anyway she picks me up and you know I’m kind of hesitant but she does have a paper bag and a jacket in the back seat so I figure I’ll make myself comfortable and maybe watch some jersey shore on her T.V. Well JACKPOT! She’s straight up mentally ill, stalking some lowlife. I love it! I’ve got my reality T.V. right here, and best part is I can do a little manipulating. Time to get to work.