The reigning sovereign Aqualass is running out of room in there.
My insides feel less like someone walking gently around and upside-down in the 2001 Space Oddysey ship, and more like a rottweiler unexpectedly zipped into a kiddie sleeping bag. A disgruntled rottweiler. Who is hungry. And demands curry.
I hope she knows that I will need my spleen and liver and lungs intact once she's done batting them around. I mean, I'm not going to be able to feed her or torture our captured enemies for her amusement if she keeps wedging her cute little #!&*ing toesies through my squiggly-spooch any time she feels like it. (Especially while I'm trying to go to sleep. She definitely feels like it then.)