Kitten, kitten, who's got the kitten?

Everything I own- scarves, socks, birdies and bells- they all swing and jingle to fuel the furry grey fury of Achi the Kitten. She attacks life with claws out, poised for combat and unembarrassed by defeat. I, on the other hand, writhe in shame and misery at the slightest rumour of defeat, regardless how spurious the source. I sense disapproval from a virtual stranger and plunge into a coma of depression obsessing over wasted years devoid of talent and worth. Where is the zest of my kitten-hood? How I long for the days of my youth, when toys cowered in my presence and innocence triumphed over shame! Poppycock! No such days existed. I blushed upon birth and immediately demanded that my father put down his Bible and fucking dress me.
But then, there's Albert- the prodigal kitty. He disappeared the night Buffalo was buried by snow and we assumed he was corralling around that great cathouse in the sky by now. But (!!!) he returned last week, shivering and dirty, with a newfound zeal for napping. (A zeal that I personally find to be self-renewing. Naps spring from some great aquifer of torpor housed deep within my lazy-ass soul.) His is a renaissance of lethargy hitherto unseen in paranoid kittyland, where even blankets and pillows host hidden terrors unknown to man. Before he disappeared, he was a noisy, nervous cat. I'm quite glad to see that his tenure outdoors has lightened him up a bit. He can now almost certainly be spotted lazing about on beds and poof chairs alike, praising Jesus under his breath for guiding him home. I swear you can see a halo above his head and the slightest traces of angels’ wings. I've never seen him so content. Even his interest in Tiberius the Bird has waned considerably. I, for one, am certain that he was in a tight spot outdoors and some friendly birds came to his aid. Honestly, no more likely or alluring explanation can be found.
Earlier today, I walked home for lunch through sidewalks shrouded in a mist that popped and burst around my nose like freshly poured cola. The leaves that had not yet succumbed to winter glittered and hung from the trees like golden ornaments. I trampled their fallen brothers and sisters under my feet and thought about how I no longer have anything of interest to impart to the world. I have eked out my last bit of usefulness and am ready to collapse, a wispy wraith culled of value and left on the universal threshing floor. I used to work with this girl named Angel. She told me one day that I take nothing in stride, which was funny because I had fancied myself easy going at the time. I've second guessed myself ever since. Way to go, Angel.