All right, I was just lying there on the chair, licking myself, when the Woman comes up, picks me up without asking, and hugs me while cooing "Ooooh, you are so cute."

Well, yeah, lady I know that, but come on.
Just, Jezus.
Gag me.

People have odd traditions. You’d never find a bunch of cats throwing costumes on and going door to door, begging for treats they’re normally not allowed to have. It was sad, really, to see all these small humans posturing their imagined cuteness for candy that neither smells bad enough to be good nor reeks enough to get them high.

Amateurs.

Cats never beg. We demand. And we usually get what we want.

Take tonight, for instance. My people were sitting outside with the neighbors and their small, sticky male offspring. I was hungry—it was only half an hour until dinner time, and my stomach was rumbling loudly—so every time one of them came into the house for one thing or another, I hollered at them.

And what do you know, after my incessant demands (and some forced cuteness; I don’t mind the small sticky person so much, and I’ll humor him by letting him wave at me through the screen, which seems to make them all happy) the Woman ran inside—yes, she ran—to fill my plate with some nice Trout Fancy Feast.

Begging doesn’t work.

But demanding, in a tone that says “this is my right, and you are my servant” invariably does.

Humans are so gullible.

Something interesting: my entire nose fits into just one of the Woman’s nostrils. She gets all pissy on me when I do this, but what does she realistically expect? I mean, come on! Something up there smells like it buried itself in deep and died. It’s putrid, foul, and disgusting smelling. I love it!

It’s not like I bother her every ten minutes for catch a whiff. Out of common courtesy I wait until she’s asleep. I creep very carefully onto her sleeping body, sit gently, and jam my nose up the closest nostril as far—and as delicately as I can. It’s not as is I’m trying to wake her up. It’s not my fault if she a)sleeps too lightly, and b)has this thing about me standing on her boobs.

I don’t know about these bipeds. I’ve already made it clear that cats don’t love people, but the Woman keeps picking me up and cooing “I knoooowwwww you lovvvve me.”

Look, lady, you paid someone to cut my nuts off. No, I don’t love you. Besides, if you really loved me, you wouldn’t get so bent out of shape when I stand outside the bedroom door at 3 a.m. to sing. I have a good voice—you should sit up, listen, and appreciate the gift of my musical talent.

Oh, and tell the Man that if he ever locks me in the bathroom again, I’m going to poop on his pillow.

Newsflash, Lady: Yes, you do look like a bed, and yes, those do look like pillows. I don’t care if your nipples invert; they’re comfortable, and while you are sleeping, I am going to curl up on you and set my head on one of them. You might as well get used to that.

In what word is it acceptable to come home an hour and fifteen minutes late when you have a hungry feline waiting for you? Okay, so it was really only fifteen minutes late, but I'm still extremely annoyed about this time change. Yeah, sure, the bipeds always leave dry food out, but they knowthat's not what I want.

I'm not obsessed with food. It just seems that way.

And what's with this "No, you can't sit on my lap right now?" bull? I don't care if you have to pee. Hold it and let me have my throne.

Oh yeah, and if you don't change my litterbox tonight, I'm going to poop on your pillow.

A common misconception among those chosen to care for our species: when we wind our way through your legs while you are trying to walk down stairs, we are not trying to kill you. That would be counterproductive; if you die, who will open the cans of food?

Really, we're only trying to piss you off. And it seems like we're doing a very good job.

Ok, let’s start with today’s “time change.” I don’t care what the people say, it was a BAD IDEA. Sure, their fancy little timepieces might have said 8 a.m., but my stomach said it was 9 a.m. and that’s the latest I should be forced to wait for food. I’m not a bad cat. Most mornings I wait patiently for the Woman to drag herself out of bed before I begin my daily reminders that I haven’t been fed since the night before and I am starving to death.

This time change is an egregious error. I was not about to wait until one of those bipeds decided they’d had enough rest. I was hungry, dammit, so of course I started calling out to them. Gently at first, of course. But when they were still wrapped up in those blankets when my stomach was growling so hard it hurt, I let them have it. Yes, I howled my head off, until the Man finally got up.

But would he lower himself to opening up a can of Fancy Feast for me? No. He read his stupid newspaper first.

Look, people, get a clue. We don’t love you. We love your opposable thumbs. Accept that and we’ll get along much better.

I am Max, a feline currently being held hostage by humans who think they own me. When they're otherwise occupied, watching their inane squawk box of stuffing their faces, I will overtake the computer and tell the world what I really think.