Dear Diary,
I exist. I observe. I do not engage.
The cats? They’re always complaining. About food. About Reggie. About gravity. I don’t get it. Life is simple—nap, snack, patrol, repeat. But these furballs act like the world owes them a drama award.
And the noise. The constant meowing, knocking things over, and dramatic flopping. If one more cat sends a glass flying off the counter, I swear I’m going to eat it. Not metaphorically. Literally.
I don’t chase tails. I don’t bark at shadows. I don’t hump anything. I am Arya. I am above it all.
Until next time—assuming the cats haven’t driven me to commit a felony.
— Signed, Arya the Aloof