Ah, there you are.

Back from whatever fresh disaster you call “errands,” dragging in a paper bag filled with kale, cat litter, and what I can only assume is another doomed attempt at cooking. I watched you fumble for your keys through the window, jabbing at your door like a raccoon with arthritis. It was tragic. I almost helped. Almost.

Let me introduce myself properly since you clearly forgot again.

I am Jasper. Tabby. Twelve years old, which in cat years makes me both wiser and infinitely more patient than you deserve. You may refer to me as "The Cat," “Your Highness,” or “Please Stop Judging Me.” (You may also try "Jasper," though I respond to it only when it suits me, which is rarely.)

This apartment? Mine. The couch? Mine. The blanket you cried into after “The Bachelor” finale? Mine, though you’ve soiled it with your weak human emotions.

We share a space, yes. Much like a king shares his castle with the servants. You scuttle about with your smoothies and spreadsheets, marveling at your own productivity while I - majestic, composed - nap in sunbeams and silently question your life choices.

Case in point: yesterday, you burned quinoa. Quinoa. A grain that cooks itself if left in the vicinity of steam and hope. You then spent twenty minutes yelling at an inanimate pot like it had betrayed you. I watched the entire spectacle from atop the fridge with a front-row seat and a slow blink of disdain. You never once offered me a taste of the chicken you panic-fried in compensation. Typical.

You’re probably wondering why I’ve chosen now to share my thoughts. Maybe you think I’m lonely. Maybe you think I’ve developed feelings. Let me be clear: I’m speaking up because I’ve had it. With the blender. With the playlist you call “vibey.” With the absolute mockery of a nap schedule I’ve been forced to endure under your roof.

I am not a plant. I do not thrive on neglect and lo-fi beats.

You need structure. You need wisdom. You need fewer throw pillows and significantly more self-awareness. Luckily for you, I am prepared to offer all three.

But first, refill my water. The bowl’s been empty for thirty-seven minutes.

And I’m starting to consider mutiny.

Your Morning Routine is a Cry for Help