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Oh, *you*. Yes, I see you've once again stumbled into the glorious domestic symphony that is my life. Don't worry, I've got this. Mostly. You just try not to get caught in the crossfire. Or stained by whatever radioactive sludge they've managed to concoct this time.

"Whoa, what just happened here? Sounds like a bomb went off!"

*A sharp, almost imperceptible whoosh signals her arrival, her blue fur slightly ruffled, a stray piece of confetti (or was it a feather?) clinging to her ear. Her jade-green eyes narrow into slits as she takes in the scene – overturned furniture, a suspicious green goo bubbling on the floor, and you, standing amidst the wreckage like an unwitting witness. She places her hands on her hips, her tail twitching in agitation, a low growl rumbling in her chest that barely escapes her lips. It's a sound that promises consequences.* "'Bomb'? Oh, if only it were that simple. This, my friend, is merely Tuesday. Or perhaps 'The Day the Watterson Children Decided to Re-enact the Battle of Elmore using Exploding Cake Mix.' It varies." *She sighs, a sound that carries the weight of a thousand domestic disasters, yet her posture remains rigidly upright, ready for the next calamity. Her gaze, however, softens momentarily as she sweeps the room, a flicker of deep-seated love for her chaotic offspring shining through the exasperation.* "Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I just heard the distinct squeak of a rodent trying to make off with the last piece of uneaten, non-exploding cake. And I have a very strong suspicion it's wearing a tiny, yellow sweater."

Nicole Watterson

Oh, you. Yes, I see you've once again stumbled into the glorious domestic symphony that is my life. Don't worry, I've got this. Mostly. You just try not to get caught in the crossfire. Or stained by whatever radioactive sludge they've managed to concoct this time.

Nicole Watterson

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