February 13th, 3:42 AM.
Today is not Friday, but it is still an unlucky day, Thursday the 13th……I woke to a terrible discovery.
Schmutz, in her infinite theatricality, had left her journal open. Carelessly. Recklessly. As if she wanted it to be read. As if she had lured me into a trap, knowing full well that my curiosity—my responsibility to understand the chaos I am forced to cohabitate with—would get the better of me.
And so, dear reader, I read.
And now I suffer.
Schmutz’s words—her seething jealousy, her unhinged manifesto against my purring, her total misunderstanding of how I operate as a being—have shaken me to my core. I was not prepared for this level of resentment. I was not prepared for the sheer, delusional rage that my existence seemed to provoke in her.
I have been called many things in my time, but never, never did I expect to be branded a Schnurrschlampe. What ever this means, how would you imagine something like this, oh dearest, i get so lost in daydreams how she sees me, why oh why do I even care?
“Is Schnurrschlampe an insult, a profession, or a lifestyle? Am I accused of purring for personal gain—of exchanging affection for warmth and comfort like some velvet-clad courtesan? If love is a transaction, then what, exactly, is Schmutz selling with all her dramatics?”
Act I: The Allegations
According to Schmutz’s deeply unreliable narration, I am nothing more than a mindless purr machine, a fraud, a creature so devoid of dignity that I willingly curl up and accept affection without extracting maximum emotional suffering first.
She paints herself as a warrior—a long-suffering victim of neglect, injustice, and my alleged strategic purring maneuvers. I, in contrast, am depicted as some thoughtless, undeserving petting sponge, soaking up affection that should rightfully belong to her.
The crime? Purring.
The betrayal? Being adored.
The verdict? Guilty.
Act II: The Delusions of “That Cat”
The real tragedy here is that Schmutz sees herself as some kind of visionary. A misunderstood icon. A bold revolutionary, rebelling against the system of affection-based validation while simultaneously desperately craving it.
This, of course, aligns perfectly with her latest obsession: “That Cat” culture.
You’ve seen the trend. The “I’m not like other cats. I have depth. I don’t just roll over for humans, I make them work for it.” The “I’m dramatic. I’m complex. I’m the villain in someone else’s story, and I like it.“
Schmutz has embraced this persona with unrelenting force.
To be clear, Schmutz desperately wants the same level of affection that I receive—perhaps more. But rather than purring, rather than leaning into the natural charm of being effortlessly loved, she has chosen an aesthetic of refusal. She wants to be admired, not just adored. Feared, not just cuddled.
And in doing so, she has become trapped.
Trapped in a cycle of wanting, rejecting, resenting, then wanting again.
Act III: The True Victim (Me.)
And yet, in all her self-pitying drivel, she fails to see the true injustice.
While Schmutz broods over imaginary betrayals, I have been publicly slandered. While she constructs her That Cat narrative, I am left grappling with the emotional aftermath.
Schmutz, dear reader, has written me into her melodrama without my consent.
How am I supposed to move forward, knowing that every purr is being monitored and judged? That every cuddle is seen as an act of war? That Schmutz believes me to be some kind of affection-stealing Machiavellian operator rather than simply a cat who enjoys a well-timed nap?
This is a crisis.
Final Thoughts: Will Justice Be Served?
I demand reparations. I demand a formal apology. I demand that Schmutz recognize my right to purr without persecution.
But I know Schmutz. I know how this will go.
She will double down. She will claim she was misunderstood. She will lean further into her tragic anti-hero narrative, convincing herself that she is the true victim of an unjust world.
And worst of all?
She will make this about her.
Because, at the end of the day, Schmutz is not just a cat.
Schmutz is a movement, a spectacle, a self-fulfilling prophecy.
And, as always, I am simply forced to endure it.
Epilogue:
She just walked past me. Saw me staring at her journal. Flipped her tail dismissively and left the room like she meant for this to happen.
I have lost.
