This is just to say that initially I felt okay upon waking given how much wine we drank with dinner. Then Grace launched a campaign ostensibly because I’d had the audacity to sleep until 645am when she absolutely definitely was going to die of starvation but really because she’s a Masshole feline with puritanical tendencies who doesn’t approve of the demon alcohol.
First she knocked over the flowers on my bedside table and when I still didn’t stir because sleeping on a bed of peonies and lilac pedals is actually a bit of a fairytale, she let out an enormous, bone-chilling wail, took a running leap and with claws extended landed on my foot, the one extremity poking out of my very soft and cozy comforter. And, uh, my permakitten drew blood because damn does that girl need a pedicure. At this writing I am disinfecting my foot while nursing a gargantuan hangover and Grace is sulking un-prettily and in general every resident of Gracie Rosmansion is in quite a state.