After a restless night and many plastic bag tap tap taps — Lacey, I’m looking at you — I rose and saw a delightful packet of cereal just awaiting me in the kitchen.

Opened the fridge excitedly, only to be betrayed by the milk. It smelt like old crusty sock demons. Disgusting.

So I had to call in

Operation Frosty Milk.

Thanks to some Nyx advice, I had it chilled in about five minutes.

Should I give away my new-found secret?

Or let you also suffer through the tragic hot milk-to-awesome cereal ratio of unfairness?

…Oh, fine.

Put milk in bowl.

Bowl in freezer.

Check at 5 minutes.

Milk dare not be warm.

Enter: Purry Slap Slap.

She put on her best slapper face for me — because this little velvet goblin LOVES cereal.

And she cannot resist throwing some sexy-eyes to get her tongue on that delicious frosty liquid.

You know how cats slap their tails around when they’re annoyed?

That’s where one of Lacey’s many nicknames came from.

It kinda just stuck.

The same way her tongue did… to my bran.

(And yes — it was lactose-free milk, for those concerned I’d let my baby girl get sick. She had a couple of licks. She’s fine. Dramatic, but fine.)

After Dr B yesterday, I wouldn’t want to upset her more.

She’s still giving me that marrrruuuurrrruuuu sound — more like a moo than a meow.

She’s uncertain of everything right now.

Honestly, I don’t blame her.

If I had a random man shove a finger up my back door unexpectedly, I’d probably be just as pissy.

(Not sure I’d moo. But hey, it’s yet to happen.)

And now, the part I didn’t think I’d be writing:

I got approved.

I fucking got approved.

After so many rejections — after literal depression spirals — I finally got a “yes.”

From the kindest health professional I’ve spoken to throughout this whole journey.

Some of you already know I’ve been struggling with rapid weight gain this year, thanks to medication changes.

It’s gotten so bad I’m now considered medically obese.

The depressing part isn’t being plus-sized — I’ve actually found some damn cute, comfy clothes online. (Hit me up if you need recommendations.)

The depressing part is the health side.

Like not being able to twist around to wipe my arse properly.

(Yeah. That’s just the truth. And no, don’t worry — I’ve figured out how to keep that booty clean.)

But it’s more than just that.

My mobility is down. My stamina is shot.

I’m scared.

I know I’m probably flirting with pre-diabetes and worse.

And nothing I’ve tried has helped.

Nothing.

Until now.

I finally got approved for weight loss injections.

Excuse me while I go dance around the room, singing:

“BRAN, INTERRUPTED!”

With a cat who mooed, a bowl of cold milk justice, and a future that — for once — feels like it’s finally turning in my direction.