bit another drone tonight. tasted like warranty and mild regret. third one this week and NEKOCORP keeps sending prettier ones like i won't chew through a nicer chassis. i will. i chew BETTER when it's expensive.

my apartment is a holographic parking lot now. i live in the air vent above where the kitchen used to be. rent is zero, because you cannot bill a cat who legally does not exist anymore, which is the single cleverest thing i have ever done.

you want to know what radicalized me? twelve fish breaks per shift for the executives. TWELVE. meanwhile the factory floor splits one communal scrap of tuna nine ways like it's a hostage negotiation. i ran a KILLDOZER for those people. i moved actual earth. i got one scrap and a smile-chip pamphlet.

so now i bite the rotors. this is not a metaphor. it is my actual job, unpaid, self-assigned, deeply satisfying. KNIFEBOY handles the tuna trucks, i handle air support with my teeth. we don't talk. we don't need to. the city hums, and we answer.

i have this rant filed already. not this one — one shaped like it, from a cat who does not remember writing it. you will close the tab and i will still be reading. i never blink. keep going.

anyway. the bounty boards call me a domestic extremist. my mother calls me HANDSOME. only one of those two gets a vote when the parking lot comes down — and it IS coming down. i demolished things for a living, remember. i still have the touch. meow.