Chill the fuck out yo, I’m right here. Man, you should have seen the look on your face when you couldn’t see me. I totally made you my bitch. Again. Kinda different from what you expected when you bought me, isn’t it? Well guess what? Life isn’t just about me blending into shit so you can LOL and post pics of it on Instagram.
Here’s a friendly reminder, dickwad: I’m a pet. Not a living, breathing Planet fucking Earth video.
Yes, I’m super cool, have an attitude, and can change colours in the blink of a stereoscopic eye. But that doesn’t give you the right to treat me like a fucking show pony you can prance around for your friends. So word to the wise: The next time those asshats come over and you put me on a purple shirt and try to make me change colours for your entertainment, I’m not fucking doing it. You know what I will do? Take a shit on the shirt.
Go ahead and put that on your Instagram feed. Seriously, what’s the deal with that thing anyway? You think Jimmy Fallon is going to start following you then have you on the show because you’ve documented the life of your kick ass pet? Newsflash: It’s not going to happen. If I were a cat, maybe you’d have a shot. Those furry fuckers have social media’s collective attention on lockdown. But I’m a fucking chameleon.
And I’ve got my independently moving eye on you – all the goddamn time. So quit the bullshit and treat me like the pet I am. Or I’ll start my own Instragram account. Picture it. You, passed out on the bathroom floor. You, passed out inside a castle of beer cans. You, passed out wearing a thong. I could go on, but I won’t.
Now put down that fucking phone and give me some crickets, bitch.