Terrible Morning

It is absolutely imperative that I stop meowing, but I REFUSE!  I've been so riled up ever since I upended the mug of water on Morgan's bedside table, that I can scarcely bring myself to do much else but EMOTE, CONSTANTLY.  Just now I've chased the lesser Tiger Power from the kitchen into the hallway, then into Charlie's empty room and up through his window and onto Mother's stairs.  Then I ran up on the stairs and chased her back down through the window and into the living room, and behind the car seat, where I felt my dominance had finally been asserted.  At this point, Morgan chased me into the kitchen, crying "you are being a MOTHER FUCKER!" before she heaved a pen at me.  It is times like these, dear diary, when I truly abhor my own behavior, yet when I am subject to these spells it is so very hard to break free.  Mother is in her room, and I wish to heaven that she would acknowledge my pleas for breakfast - nay - lunch even!  But alas, her slumber cannot be broken.  And so my primal instincts lead me to stalk the house in search of prey, howling to the powers that be that I might come across a meager snack at the baseboard of the kitchen sink.  What a wretched, hateful soul am I.