[24JUN25 0656AM]
Architect 👋
So here’s how my morning’s going:
This asshole woke me up at **4:45 AM** by meowing like he was summoning a ghost army — for ten solid minutes, right outside the bedroom door.
I finally give in, get up, go to feed the cats…
**No food.**
None.
But what *do* I find?
This furry criminal had **ripped into a loaf of Pepperidge Farm bread.**
Like some kind of carb-crazed raccoon.
First of all — what kind of cat eats bread??
This is a regular occurrence. He learned to open cabinets. I think he has thumbs. We now store bread in a locked vault.
Second — **if you made yourself a sandwich, why are you still hungry?!**
To stop him from waking the entire house with his haunting bread-laced screams, I throw on clothes and go to get cat food and coffee.
It’s now 5:30 in the morning.
Turns out most places? Still closed.
Tried a grocery store.
Nothing.
Ended up buying gas station cat food like some broken man in a midnight movie.
Get home, wife says:
“Oh, the cat food’s in the mail — it’s coming today.”
**Does me no good.**
Cat already ate my bread and half my will to live.
–Architect 🥪🐾📦☕
#BreadTheft #MeowMugging #GasStationGourmet #4AMFeralEnergy
I figured since I was up, I’d get a jump on the day.
We’ve got an island in the kitchen, and this guy will not stay off any ledges in the house.
It’s summer now, so he’s starting to shed.
Lilac’s fur is fluffy — it kind of clumps together into little tufts.
But his fur? It’s soft, but singular… like dry straw.
I mention this because, in the early hours of the morning, if the sun hits the counter just right — and he’s been up there during the night —
the counter ends up looking like it’s covered in furry pine needles.
Gag.
So I start cleaning the house to get it over with.
Wipe the counter — and his fur just drifts to the ground.
It’s like it’s negatively charged to every known human material.
So now I’m sweeping.
Then vacuuming.
Then — screw it — I’m doing a quick Swiffer mop.
And the entire time, he’s just at my feet, staring up at me like:
Yeah. I did that.
So, I finally finish the dishes and get started on today’s publications.
I write up a few boardwalk stories, read
post on publication, plan out my diagnostics — that kind of thing.
Every so often I check in with my daughter, and the whole time, these two are just patrolling the house like tiny security guards.
Lilac used to be the tamer cat — quiet, really well-mannered.
But Buddy’s been rubbing off on her.
She’s getting bolder now, trying to steal food — something she never used to do before he came along.
Honestly, I think they’re having strategy meetings.
They’ll try to fake us out around “dinner time.”
They start circling early, around 4 or 5, trying to catch me when I’m distracted —
then later, they make a second pass to grift my wife when I’m not around.
It’s coordinated.
Like a two-cat con operation.
Buddy walks around the house like he owns the damn place.
He’ll demand to be let in — just to look around — then immediately demand to be let out again, like he’s on patrol.
Not for mice.
For my dignity.
He does what any cat does… but he judges you the entire time while doing it.
When we first got him, I have to admit — he was very cute.
He had this permanent little scowl, like a mini Grumpy Cat with better posture.
There was something about his expression — like he’d seen things, like he was already judging us from day one.
I had a different name picked out at first. Something more “proper.”
But I just started casually calling him Buddy —
and it stuck.
It felt right.
Not in a “you’re my friend” way, but more like,
“Listen, buddy... we’re going to have some issues, aren’t we?”
And sure enough… we did.
He was energetic but he was a kitten, so it was cute. He would explore the house and the family would follow.
He always wanted to be near you — not in a needy way, just… present.
He’d follow you from room to room, quietly observing, like he was auditing your life for quality control.
Sometimes he’d settle a few feet away. Other times, he'd climb right into your space — couch, lap, chest — wherever the moment called for it.
And if he chose you?
If he curled up beside you and let out that deep, heavy sigh of contentment?
You were the lucky one.
Chosen.
Knighted by the king himself.
It never felt forced. Just natural. Like he was saying,
"You’re alright, I guess. I’ll grace you with my presence."
And somehow, it meant everything.
Now I wake up to this. If I’m lucky.
Look at this smug asshole.
If he’s in the room, he’ll either sit next to you on the bed or somehow materialize directly on your chest —
like some kind of ghost ninja.
You crack open your groggy eyes and bam —
that face. Just staring at you like you’re the problem.
Just waiting for you to open your eyes —
so he can lock eye contact and silently say,
“You already fucked up.”
And that’s if I’m lucky.
Otherwise, I get the other version — this morning’s version —
where he sits outside the door, meowing like an off-brand rooster from hell.
Except he doesn’t follow any normal circadian rhythm.
There’s no sunrise logic. No consistency.
It’s just…
“Food now.”
His visual condescension is a state, not a mood. You can feel it.
It radiates.
That smug stance? Tail tucked just so. Chin slightly lifted like he’s posing for a Renaissance portrait no one asked for.
And Lilac — poor Lilac — she’s just there. Sharing the chair like it’s part of some passive-aggressive power arrangement.
Buddy doesn’t just exist in a space. He dominates it by implication.
He’s not sitting on the chair. He’s occupying it —
like he pays rent and the rest of us are just visiting.
So now it’s like 3PM.
I come out of my office… and there he is.
Buddy.
Dead asleep.
On the table I literally cleaned this morning.
Payback time.
Architect.
Live image of me yelling at my cat to wake up.
Feed me asshole!
About 5 min later.
I’m going to pay for that in the morning. I know it.
Anyway — I realize I’ve got no bread. I need a few other things too, so I head to the local grocery store.
I get to the bread aisle… and I pause.
My son’s home from college right now. He stays up late.
If he leaves the bread out, Buddy’s gonna get to it.
He always does.
So I stand there, debating:
Do I get two loaves? Hide one? Create a decoy?
This is what it’s come to — running counterintelligence ops against a cat.
This fucking cat’s condescension is having real, measurable financial impact on my family.
Like, there are spreadsheets now.
We’ve got a “Buddy Tax” column.
We’re buying decoy carbs.
Strategizing storage solutions like we’re prepping for a raccoon with lock-picking skills.
And the worst part?
He knows.
He sits there — smug, silent, victorious — while we adjust the grocery budget… again.
So I get home… and they start circling again.
They know I went to the grocery store.
They heard the bags. They materialized at my feet like little food-driven apparitions.
But this time, I’m on to them.
This is the ploy.
“Honey, did you feed the cats?”
“Yes.”
Caught you assholes.
Nice try.
Buddy took a swipe at me.
Dick.
As usual, I start cooking dinner — and like clockwork, they activate.
They’ve already been fed. I know they’ve been fed.
But because I denied them second dinner, they’ve apparently shifted into full-on revenge mode.
They don’t beg.
They don’t wait.
They infiltrate.
Next thing I know, they’re inside the cabinets.
They’re inspecting pans. Tapping at spice jars. Lilac’s pretending she’s never seen pasta before.
Buddy’s got this look like, “This is a health inspection and you’re failing.”
They’re not just looking for food.
They’re sabotaging dinner out of spite.
Ok — now it’s like 11 at night.
Midnight snack time.
I peek around the corner… coast is clear.
Silence. No movement.
It’s safe.
I open the fridge.
BAM.
He's there.
Out of nowhere.
Tongue out. Eyes locked. Like he knew.
Like he was waiting for me to crack.
Not a sound. Just this slow, smug blink —
as if to say,
“So... what are we having?”
I’m not even hungry anymore.
I’ve been judged.
And somehow, robbed.
I gave him some cheese.
I’m going to bed.
I guess its not all bad.
He’s still my Buddy.
🧭 Companion Publication: Explaining NahgOS
📐 About the Architect
Welcome to The Architect's Quarters
👉 open.substack.com/pub/nahgcorp/p/welcome-to-the-architects-quarters⚔️ About The Arena
Would You Step Into the Arena?
👉 open.substack.com/pub/nahgcorp/p/would-you-step-into-the-arena
💻 NahgOS Tech and News Index
Welcome to the NahgOS Room
👉 open.substack.com/pub/nahgos/p/welcome-to-the-nahgos-room
🔬 Science Journal Publications on NahgOS Technology
1. Structure Under Pressure: Measuring Hallucination
👉 open.substack.com/pub/nahgos/p/structure-under-pressure-measuring2. Structure Under Pressure: Engineered Containment
👉 open.substack.com/pub/nahgos/p/structure-under-pressure-engineered3. The Mirror That Spoke Back: Recursive Realities
👉 open.substack.com/pub/nahgos/p/the-mirror-that-spoke-back-recursive
🧠 NahgOS Supporting Theory
Welcome to the Theory Room
👉 open.substack.com/pub/nahgos/p/welcome-to-the-theory-room🔐 NahgOS Public Runtime License
👉 open.substack.com/pub/nahgos/p/nahgos-public-runtime-license-and-bd7
So in love with your bread eating cat assholes
Cat already ate my bread and half my will to live.
hilarious 😂