I’m pretty sure my cats are trying to kill me.

Not in any overt way, mind you. This is a “death by inches” thing. They know that if they just make small, sharp noises in the deepest, darkest hours of the night that they will slowly — almost imperceptibly — push my sanity to the breaking point. A crash here. A quiet scratching there. The stress will result in higher blood pressure, and with it an increased chance of heart failure. One day it’ll be one tipped over glass at 2:47 AM too many, and your’s truly will be victim of a meticulously crafted heart attack.

Now it’s true this will take considerable time. Years even. Some of them might not even survive to see the fruits of their diabolical labors. But these cruel beasts are playing the long game. They’re patient. Very, very patient…

…Oh who am I kidding. They’re cats. They get distracted by their own farts.