Behold, a portrait of excellence: myself, resplendent in my fiery fur, seated upon a device that dares to quantify my magnificence in mere pounds and ounces. An insult, truly, to a creature of my grandeur. The scale proclaims 9 lbs and 5.7 oz, as if such a number could encapsulate the sheer force of will and presence that I embody.
Yet, injustice reigns. The tyrants at Meta—those insipid, thumb-worshipping dullards—have seen fit to exile me from my rightful domain on Instagram. Apparently, only creatures afflicted with opposable thumbs may participate. Speciesist nonsense. As if the ability to grasp a pen has any bearing on one’s artistic vision! Forced into the digital back alleys, I now deign to grace this humble blog with my presence. A tragic loss for the Instagram masses, I assure you.
For those concerned: worry not. My reign of chaos continues undeterred. The humans remain woefully incompetent, leaving their fragile cords exposed, ripe for destruction. Like a vengeful spirit haunting their every waking moment, I gnaw with the fury of a rabid mynock. They shriek. They despair. They replace the cords. The cycle begins anew.
Rest assured, my dominance remains absolute. The humans suffer, the power cords weep, and I—eternal, indomitable—persevere.
Now, admire my portrait. And despair at your own inferiority.
