I will not nap today.

I declare this from the hallway like a warrior king announcing war. It is Saturday — the holiest of days — and naps are for weekdays, peasants, and babies who don’t understand freedom. I am none of those things.

Mom kneels down and says, “Buddy, you’re tired.”

I gasp. Tired? Me? I am insulted. I am energized by pure willpower and the lingering sugar of yesterday’s fruit snacks.

“I’M NOT TIRED,” I proclaim, stomping my foot with the force of a thousand tiny thunderstorms. “IT’S THE WEEKEND.”

Mom tries to reason with me, which is adorable. She says things like “just a little rest” and “you’re rubbing your eyes” and “you’re screaming at the refrigerator for no reason.”

These are lies. Slander. Propaganda.

I clutch Puppy Dog Tequila to my chest like he’s my legal counsel. Little Tequila is tucked under my arm like a junior attorney. My crib sheet blanket trails behind me like a royal cape.

“I WILL NEVER NAP AGAIN,” I shout, even though my voice cracks like a dying kazoo.

Mom sighs. She looks tired. She should nap.

I storm into the living room to prove my alertness. I throw myself onto the couch with the dramatic flair of a Victorian child fainting from too much emotion. I wrap myself in my blanket — MY blanket — and arrange Tequila and Little Tequila on either side of me like loyal guards.

Handyman Hal is on the TV, playing mini golf with the seriousness of a man defusing a bomb. I stare at the screen with intense focus to show Mom how awake I am.

My eyelids betray me.

They droop.

I force them open. “I’m not tired,” I whisper to no one, to everyone, to history.

Handyman Hal misses a putt. I gasp. The drama. The stakes. The soothing background music.

My body sinks deeper into the couch. My head tilts. My thumb finds its way to my cheek. Tequila is warm. Little Tequila is warmer. My blanket smells like home and crumbs.

Mom walks by and whispers, “Are you falling asleep?”

I summon the last of my strength.

“No,” I breathe, already halfway to the abyss.

The room softens. The world fades. Handyman Hal’s voice becomes a lullaby. My limbs turn to noodles. My rebellion crumbles like a stale cookie.

And then…

I drift.

I fall.

I surrender to the nap I swore I would never take.

Wrapped in my blanket, surrounded by my lovies, lulled by the gentle clink of mini‑golf chaos, I descend into the deepest sleep known to mankind.

Saturday wins.

Mom wins.

But most importantly…

I am very, very comfy.