Yes, Lucky, I’m talking about you. I love you to pieces, which is why I’m writing you this letter. This madness, quite simply, cannot go on any longer.

I should be finishing up some schoolwork, which is due by midnight, in case you’ve forgotten, while enjoying a late dinner.

Only said late dinner is a tuna sandwich, and nothing gets by your keen sense of smell.

You have already eaten, and yet you hunger for more. You see the sandwich. You want the sandwich. Crying isn’t enough for you, and so you jump onto my desk, knocking over figurines and almost spilling my coffee in your wake. I must now engage in a delicate balancing act of eating, writing, and keeping you away from the tuna sandwich.

I do not eat tuna (or indeed seafood) very often, and when I do, it is generally enjoyed outside of the house. Away from you. Because when I indulge in it in the comfort of my own home, you are there.

Waiting. Watching. Wanting.

Even now, you are sitting behind the screen of my mom’s and my shared laptop, staring at the sandwich and waiting for me to turn my back to you. But even as I type, I am watching you in the corner of my eye, hands ready to block your movement.

I hear you growl and mewl, and my answer is still no. Tuna is not actually good for kitties to eat, unless specifically prepared for them, or so I am told. And even if that wasn’t the case, this tuna is drenched in mayonnaise. Is that really what you want?

You have wasted my time. You have wasted your own time. And now that only one bite of the sandwich is left, I shall eat it slowly and delicately in front of you, fueling my spite with the sound of your cries.

Was it worth it, Lucky? Was it?

All the best,

Isis Prosser