And honestly? She’s not wrong.
Shadow used to nap like a professional.
Full sprawl. Zero shame. Tail flicking like it paid rent.
She’d purr at shadows. Chase dust. Bite invisible ghosts.
Classic cat behavior.
Now?
She sits. And stares.
Like she’s clocked me as a bug in the system.
You ever had a cat side-eye you like she’s seen your browser history?
Shadow has watched me pace the hallway 347 times in 24 hours.
She’s seen me rehearse full arguments in the shower, cry into a coffee mug,
then make a Canva graphic about “growth.”
She no longer meows.
She sends vibes.
Concerned. Disapproving. Possibly telepathic vibes.
If I open my laptop?
She relocates.
Immediately.
Like: “Ah. The trauma portal is active again. Time to evacuate the simulation.”
Sometimes she physically slaps the keyboard mid-breakdown.
Other times she just sits directly on the power button,
as if to say:
“You’ve uploaded enough chaos for one day, you unstable meat avatar.”
She used to curl up next to me while I typed.
Now she watches from a safe distance,
like a paranormal investigator studying poltergeist behavior.
And the worst part?
She blinks slowly.
That ancient feline Morse code for:
“I would reboot you if I could.”
Shadow has officially logged out of her emotional support duties.
She’s filed for spiritual unemployment.
She’s started ghosting me—in real time—while still in the room.
She doesn’t even chase the red dot anymore.
She knows it’s just another metaphor for my avoidance issues.
So if you’re wondering how my digital recovery’s going?
Just ask my cat.
But don’t expect her to answer.
She’s busy debugging her own reality after watching me emotionally code-switch through six personalities, three fonts, and a Wix meltdown before breakfast.
And honestly?
She deserves hazard pay.
Or at least her own profile on the site.
Because Shadow didn’t sign up for this simulation.
She just lives here.
With me.
And my multiverse of psychological tabs still open.
My Emotional Support Animal Needs a Therapist Now
She used to wag—now she sighs,
When trauma tweets, she rolls her eyes.
Every sob, she shares the strain,
My laptop’s launchpad for her pain.
She’s seen the texts. She’s heard the cries.
She’s chewed the proof and sniffed the lies.
We’re both unhinged—what a match,
I bark, she journals—perfect catch.
—The Funny Phoenix, co-healing with a cat
