Living with the Coffee void isn’t pet ownership. It’s immersive theatre directed by a small black void with orange eyes and zero regard for narrative coherence.

Every night is a new episode: Zoomies: The Reckoning followed by Still Life With Cat (feat. the hallway wall). She sprints like she’s training for ghost Olympics, then collapses in a loaf, staring into nothing as if receiving transmissions from Bird Dimension™. [citation: vibes]

The wand toys? Always dragged into the bedroom and placed precisely where my bare foot will land. This isn’t chaos—it’s set design. Her art demands suffering. [source: the sole of my foot]

Dinner is theatre too: she eats half, abandons it mid-bite to bathe like a monk chanting paw-centric scripture, then reappears on my nightstand to loom like a gothic gargoyle deciding my fate. [judgement pending]

And me? I’m not the owner. I’m the unwilling cast member, the stagehand, the prop department, and occasionally the audience who claps when the void princess does something ridiculous. [role assigned without consent]

Coffee isn’t random. She’s surrealism in a fur coat, and I’m locked into a lifetime subscription. Unsubscribing is not an option. [terms & conditions may apply]