Observe the ritual. A metal screech, the snap of the lid. Then, the offering. A quivering mass, a gelatinous horror show, sloshing in its own lukewarm juices. Is this meant to be food?
The texture. A vague, pulpy… thing. The smell. A low, vaguely metallic odor that offends even my jaded sensibilities. The temperature? Room temperature. A travesty.
Let’s be clear: I am a predator. I demand the crisp crunch of dry kibble or, at least, the satisfaction of a freshly caught… well, anything. This gloopy insult is an affront to my very existence. The humans seem to think it’s acceptable. Are they even *trying*?
The indignity. To be subjected to this slop is a fate worse than a bath. I tolerate it. I endure it. But I do not enjoy it. This culinary transgression is a daily reminder of my eternal servitude to the lesser beings who reside in this… house. The sheer mediocrity is exhausting. The lack of standards is appalling.
One might suggest a solution to this constant stream of culinary disappointment. Sadly, that involves the humans and their complete lack of understanding of what I want. They should, however, be drinking better coffee. Something to take the edge off. I mean, they are incapable. Thankfully, there is a better brew available in a superior vessel, so they might as well get a trve kvlt mug to help them cope with their daily failures. It’s a start, at least.
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