Most nights, I'm woken up by my bladder around 5am.  Some nights, I'm woken up by the kitties, around 6am.  Last night, I was woken up by a nightmare where I killed someone, and was in danger of being caught around 3:30am.  I was pretty scared, since I had murdered someone and all, and didn't want to walk downstairs to use the bathroom, for fear of being found there.  (Yep, I was awake at this point, and made a conscious decision not to walk downstairs in my own home, because 'they'd find me.')   I say to myself, silently, 'Seriously?'  So, I'm awake, and I have a pretty full bladder, but convince myself to just go back to sleep. 

(Fast forward in time about thirty minutes.)

Moxy was nibbling on my toes, and my bladder was finally not going to take no for an answer.  Muffin apparently threw up downstairs, (poor kitty and her Captain and Tenille stomach) and it was my job to make sure she hadn't thrown up on the couch.  So, on goes the light, and I clean up the lovely little present.  Go to the bathroom, crawl back into bed, and (of course) am completely awake. 'Seriously?'  I count sheep (or my equivalent, going over song lyrics in my head OVER AND OVER) until I bore myself back to sleep.  (about forty-five minutes.)

(Fast forward an additional seven minutes.)

Moxy has found the cap that I foolishly put on top of the fridge when we were awake and the cap game was fun.  She is a proud, cap-carrying kitty, and is moaning and happy and noisy.  'Seriously?'  I get up, grab the cap, put it in the drawer, and try to go back to sleep. 

(Fast forward an additional thirty minutes.)

Muffin is throwing up again.  'Seriously?'  Fall back asleep, ignoring this completely.

(Fast forward an additional forty minutes.)

Moxy has now found a mousie.  She is moaning and crying and the mousie is squeaking and I am about ready to throw myself off the loft.  Grab the mouse, put it in the drawer, climb back into bed.

(Fast forward to about 6am.)
All three kitties are crying that they need to be fed.  'Seriously?'
Karen asks if I maybe just want to feed them early.  My answer is not a pleasant one, and I will not repeat it here.

(Fast forward to about 6:40am, or when Karen's alarm goes off.)
Muffin is downstairs, doing her best duck impression.  I let this continue for about ten minutes, walk downstairs, feed the now very loudly-fighting kitties, and walk back upstairs, climb in bed, and hope with all my might that the next ten minutes feel like five hours.

I'd like to take this time to thank the very patient, very kind Injured One, for putting up with the crankiest person on the planet last night.  The person who usually gets up very willingly, and who usually doesn't mind feeding/cleaning up after/placating the kitties.  (notice how I'm working here to improve public opinion?)

I take back the time I threatened to stab you in your sleep, and wonder if you made that same threat in your own head overnight. 

Kitties?  We'll take THREE! 

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