did i do that?

Dear Diary,

It's approximately 3:45 a.m. and I just awoke to the supremely thick and unpleasant surprise of combing my digits through a fresh pile of warm cat puke. In the rural locution of Mr. Hank Hill, "whut in the cat's meow is goin' on here? Is this yer idea of some kinda sick joke? Dhammit, Bobcat."

Aside from my apathetic pussy showcasing a glaring absence of shame in her spew game, the sludgy sensation immediately brought to mind the kind of kooky kitty regurgitation fantasy that would so obviously take place in some deviant realm of Doctor Claw's mind after a sensuous M.A.D Cat muff-walloping, followed by one too many nights of forced viewings of Grimalkin Island on Talon TV. You just know how that nefarious fool likes to get down, masterminding oddball projector-style screenings of late night double-features starring his favorite frisky four-steppers while he slinks back into a one-handed recline in that creepazoid throne he commandeers in the shadowy chambers of his clandestine lair. Jeepers! It gives me the gobsmackin' willies just thinking about it.

Sorry, family. I may still be partially comatose as I clack blearily away at my glowing terminal in the dusky gloom of daybreak. Apparently, kitten puke-fugues can cause, among other hurt and confused feelings, frenzied Inspector Gadget flashbacks and possibly even a delirious craving for some Cantonese-style bargain-basement kitten chow-mein (yeh, that side-eye is for you, gato).

P.S. Please don't tell Pissy Galore I was talkin' smack about her triflin' ass on da innerwebz or she might go all Mr. Bigglesworth on me and claw my face off so she can make use of my assorted orifices to hoard her exotic collection of catnips, among other unspeakable sticky-paw sundries. She be a miniature treasure reservoir, that cat.