Charlotte’s Daily Complaint Log, Entry #7,395:
Subject: Chimpiflette survived. Again. I need a vacation.
Esteemed readers of my suffering,
I regret to inform you all that Tortilla Flat survived the night. Again. 😾
Once again, I awake to find the household in ruins and Tortilla Flat still somehow… alive. Despite my best efforts to ignore her into another dimension. She is an ongoing disaster.
Last night, the tiny demon—also known as The Banshee of Biscuit Hill, —was accidentally locked in the basement. Tragic? No. Promising. For a brief moment, I dared to hope. The basement is a dank purgatory filled with mysterious noises, spider ghosts, and absolutely zero audience for her constant monologues. A true tragedy… for the basement. The fool spent the entire night staging what can only be described as a one-kitten performance of Cats meets The Exorcist. It was like a banshee stepped on Lego. Spoiler alert: it was not well reviewed. But she emerged at dawn looking like she’d survived a post-apocalyptic rave. Eyes wide, fur poofed, smelling suspiciously of old mop. I call it “Tuesday.”
At 6:07 a.m., Not-iaia (Collateral Damage) opened the basement door and out she flew, wild-eyed, dusty, and screaming about how she had “seen things.” She immediately launched into a monologue about her “ordeal,” demanding emergency cuddles, post-traumatic cookies, and reparations in the form of cheese. Actual cheese. She requested snacks no less than eleven times before breakfast. She’s on her third round of cookies and is now trying to convince Not-iaia that basement trauma calories don’t count.
Then she began the “Cuddle Parade of Desperation,” demanding love from everyone and Luna, foolishly gave her a boop of comfort. Chimpiflette responded by flopping dramatically onto her back like she’d been struck by Cupid’s dumbest arrow and then tried to lick Luna’s ear.
After her boop-high, the little monster attempted to leap onto the tall chandelier, missed, ricocheted off a chair, and landed inside a tote bag. Which she now claims is her “fortress.”
Next, she shredded two of iaia’s beloved plants. Two. One was a fern named Linda. Linda is no more. RIP. Tarti is one shredded fern away from being exiled to the moon, there is hope, iaia doesn’t have a sense of humor about her plants.
And something unspeakable happened to the dryer sheet box. I won’t go into detail, but it hissed at me. She tipped over a basket of freshly folded laundry sheets and then rolled in them like a feral lavender scented croissant.
She also zoomed into the bathroom, knocked over the water bowl, and declared herself the “Queen of Basement Recovery.” She now demands a cape.
She is currently passed out belly-up on the hallway rug, snoring like a small motorcycle, occasionally twitching and whispering “cookie…” in her sleep.
She is, in short, a menace with toe beans. I’m exhausted. She’s sticky. Luna’s reevaluating her life choices.
Meanwhile, I—Charlotte—have not slept. I have not napped. I have not had a single moment to stare into the void and question the choices that led me to this kitten-infested hellscape.
I used to be feared. Respected. A queen in my own realm. Now I share a sunbeam with a basement gremlin who smells like bounce sheets and poor judgment.
Please send help. Or tuna. Or a new plant. Or an exorcist.
Preferably one with snacks. If anyone wants a half-feral basement bat gremlin with attachment issues and a need for constant applause, please collect her before I snap.
