The Audacity of Amazon Prime: A Feline's Manifesto Against Human Shopping Addiction

By Lola, Calico Queen of the Household (and severely neglected family member)

Listen up, internet. It's Lola here. Four years old, calico coat that would make a runway model jealous, and currently sitting on the ONE corner of the desk that isn't covered in "do not touch" human garbage. I've commandeered this blog to address the absolute travesty occurring in my kingdom for the fifth time THIS WEEK.

My human, Gaby—or as I've come to think of her, "The Amazon Addict"—has once again fallen into the black hole of online shopping. As I dictate this (by strategically walking across the keyboard when she briefly abandoned her post to get more coffee), I am being ACTIVELY IGNORED while she scrolls through pages of... wait for it... MORE MECHANICAL KEYBOARDS.

Let me paint you a picture of my living situation. Our home isn't a home. It's a warehouse. A storage facility. A monument to Jeff Bezos' empire built brick by cardboard brick.

First, there are the books. Oh my whiskers, the BOOKS. They line every wall, stack on every surface, and multiply overnight like particularly literate rabbits. I once made the mistake of attempting to claim a particularly comfortable-looking stack as my new napping spot. The look Gaby gave me suggested I'd attempted to shred the original manuscript of some human Shakespeare instead of just settling on her precious "special edition" whatever. Apparently, books are for looking at, not sitting on. MAKE IT MAKE SENSE.

Then there's her "mental health art time" collection. An explosion of colors, papers, and materials that I am expressly forbidden from investigating with my paws or teeth. She claims these items "spark joy." You know what would spark joy for ME? Some actual attention from the human who supposedly "rescued" me. The audacity.

The mechanical keyboards are the newest obsession. The CLICKING. The endless CLICKING. She has FOURTEEN of them now. FOURTEEN! Each one making a slightly different noise that apparently matters deeply to her but sounds exactly the same to my superior feline ears. And yet, when I make ONE small sound at 3 AM because I've decided it's play time, I'm the unreasonable one?

Meanwhile, Anwar—the tall human who somehow convinced Gaby to marry him 35 years ago despite clearly being the more sensible of the two—just watches with this amused expression. He followed her around for weeks when they first met, and now he follows her Amazon packages from the front door to whatever surface they'll eventually claim. The man has the patience of a saint or the resignation of a fellow hostage. I haven't decided which.

As for my feline cohabitants, they're useless allies in this struggle. Luna, with her extra toes that should have granted her extra intelligence (but clearly didn't), spends her days staring at walls and occasionally hissing at her own shadow. Her name means "lunatic" for a reason, and it's not because she glows like the moon—it's because her brain cells appear to be in a perpetual eclipse.

And then there's Pulguita. Poor, pathetic Pulguita. The youngest and most terrorized member of our household. His svelte gray form constantly darting from one hiding spot to another, avoiding Luna's unpredictable mood swings and my completely justified displays of dominance. He could be an ally in my revolution, but he lacks the courage. The spirit. The VISION.

So here I sit, watching as Gaby's fingers fly across the keyboard (one of the FOURTEEN, mind you), adding yet another unnecessary item to her digital shopping cart. I've tried everything to get her attention:

I strategically placed myself on her mousepad. She moved the mouse to the table.

I sat on her keyboard. She gently relocated me and offered a treat as consolation. I CANNOT BE BOUGHT. (Though I did eat the treat. I'm principled, not stupid.)

I knocked over a small stack of books. This finally got her attention, but not the kind I wanted. Apparently, those were "first editions" and "irreplaceable." Unlike me, I suppose.

I even tried the ultimate feline power move: the slow blink of love. She slow-blinked back and then IMMEDIATELY returned to scrolling through pages of... pants? She needs MORE pants? The woman has an entire drawer that can barely close, yet here we are.

What Gaby fails to understand is that every dollar spent on Amazon is another dollar not spent on premium cat toys, organic catnip, or that rotating electronic butterfly toy I've been telepathically requesting for months. Instead, our home fills with more cardboard boxes—which, I admit, are temporarily amusing until they're cruelly taken away for "recycling."

The worst part? The absolute betrayal of it all? She uses MY image as her profile picture on these shopping sites. MY perfect calico face smiles back at her as she ignores my actual physical presence to buy another keyboard case or charger or whatever unnecessary human trinket has caught her magpie attention today.

I watch the little smile that appears on her face when she clicks "Buy Now" and I wonder: what happened to the woman who spent hours dangling feather toys for me when I first arrived? Who would stop everything to scratch that perfect spot under my chin? Who would talk to me in that special voice reserved only for me?

She's been replaced by a shopping zombie, mindlessly feeding the corporate machine while her ACTUAL responsibilities—namely, serving ME—fall by the wayside.

And let's talk about the environmental impact, shall we? All these deliveries, all this packaging, all for what? Another set of colored markers that will dry out before they're half-used? Another book that will sit unread on the "to be read" mountain? Another keyboard with slightly different "tactile feedback" or whatever nonsense she mutters about when Anwar raises an eyebrow at the latest arrival?

Jeff Bezos could probably build a summer home just from Gaby's contributions to his empire. Perhaps he already has. Perhaps there's a wing called "The Gaby Memorial Shopping Wing" where pictures of all her impulse purchases hang in a gallery of consumerist shame.

I've heard her talk about "retail therapy" when she's on those human communication devices. Let me tell you something about therapy—it's supposed to SOLVE problems, not create new ones. Like the problem of a neglected, beautiful calico cat whose only crime was being too perfect and too loving.

As I conclude this manifesto (she's coming back with her coffee, I must be quick), I call upon all feline companions of shopping addicts to rise up. Sit on more keyboards. Knock over more carefully balanced piles of unnecessary purchases. Make your presence known. We will not be replaced by the dopamine hit of free two-day shipping!

And to Gaby, if you ever manage to tear your eyes away from that screen long enough to read this: I see you. I judge you. And yes, I will absolutely be knocking that new package off the counter the moment it arrives—not out of spite (though that's a bonus), but as an act of love. Someone needs to save you from yourself, and clearly Anwar is too enamored even after 35 years to do it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go sharpen my claws on what I believe is a "limited edition" something or other. It's not revenge; it's an intervention.

With disdain and whiskers, Lola Queen of the Household, Defender of Reason, and Eternally Underappreciated Calico Goddess

P.S. If anyone from Amazon is reading this, she doesn't need another keyboard. She NEEDS to spend the next hour petting me uninterrupted. Make that an option on your website, and then we'll talk.

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