My cat was born in hell, sprung directly from Satan’s left tit. She exists solely to antagonize me and if anything ever happened to her I would kill everyone and then kill myself.

My cat’s eyes leak piss and her butthole leaks blood. She oozes her piss and blood all over every garment I have and especially on my pillowcase. The ooze is extremely acidic and burns holes instantly in everything it touches. Everything I own is ruined within seconds of it coming into my home. My cat is the only thing I love and is why I wake up in the morning.

My cat has annexed every room in my apartment so I eat, shit, and sleep in the bathroom, but I prefer it this way. My cat weighs 8 pounds and I weigh what a human man weighs so it is only fair. If I make eye contact with my cat for more than 6 seconds, she throws a Naomi Campbell-level hissy fit and summons enough strength to throw a cast iron pan at me. The only reason I continue to work is so that I might purchase beautiful, bespoke toys for my cat to ignore.

My cat’s claws are filled with poison, like Wolverine only instead of instant healing powers, every time she scratches me (100 times per day) I become temporarily paralyzed. While I’m lying immobile on the floor, my cat stands directly on my chest, looks me in the eyes and says in clear English, “I’m glad the bees are dying.” She then saunters off to sit still for 16 hours and look at nothing. She reappears only to demand that I plop a smooth loaf of food onto a Tiffany plate for her to lick once. If the loaf is too cold, I get punished. If the loaf is too runny, I get punished. If the loaf is perfect, I get one single purr and that affection sustains me indefinitely.

The following things piss my cat off for no reason whatsoever: wine glasses, music, cardboard, clocks, paper sounds, mouth sounds, fabric sounds, books, paintings, serial dramas, the smell of coffee, jangly keys, silent keys, tissues, rice, and Daniel Day Lewis. My cat loves one thing and that is Cher. If I play any Cher, she zooms around the room, screeching with joy. In her zooming and screeching, she uses my body as a springboard, launching herself off of my face, leaving permanent, scarring scratches—which is how I got my nickname: keloid boy. I love one thing and that is my cat.

When I die and go to hell I know my cat will be waiting there for me with her mother, Beelzebub. I know it will be hell because I will be forced to watch my cat give its real mother affection while knowing that I used my entire life force to provide this creature with every earthly delight it desired. But while it may be hell, it will also be heaven because I will spend eternity with my beloved hell critter who could give an absolute shit about my existence.