Dear Journal,
Today began with the usual indignities. I woke in the sunlit throne I allow them to call “the arm of the couch.” From this vantage point, I survey my kingdom — a land littered with crumbs, socks, and questionable decision-making.

The humans, my loyal albeit misguided subjects, bustled about performing rituals like “packing lunches” and “asking Siri why toddlers yell.” I remained gracious, aloof, as is fitting for a feline sovereign.

👑 James, the Smallest Minion, approached. I braced for chaos.
But lo! He bestowed upon me a gift: an open-handed, moderately gentle stroke along my majestic spine. I endured. Nobly. He whispered, “Nice kitty,” as if I were some common barn creature. I did not correct him. I am magnanimous.

🥀 The moment passed. He offered me his blankey. A gesture of peace, perhaps?
It had clearly been dragged through several ancient rituals. It smelled of ketchup, ambition, and something sticky that defies description. I sniffed. I recoiled. It was — damp.

He then attempted to sit on me.
Let me be clear: I am not a pillow. I am not a beanbag. I am not a footrest. I am a queen.
I issued a warning meow, one steeped in centuries of feline tradition. It was ignored.

Then came the fingers. Tiny, determined fingers.
They aimed for my eyes like he was trying to harvest sapphires. I offered a gracious nibble — not an attack, mind you, merely a reminder. A diplomatic gesture with teeth.

I retreated to the laundry basket, my place of exile and meditation.
Until they remember who truly rules this realm.

Yours in majestic suffering,
Her Highness Pookie of Chaos-Cuddles Castle