The Passive-Aggressive Fury of a Feline

Cats are relatively simple creatures. They eat, they sleep and they demand attention from anything they come across. That's basically all cats do. Some claim this is because they lack the mental capacity to do more than eat, sleep and chase things. Others claim they simply choose not to do anything else because they are aloof and haughty creatures. I personally fall in the latter camp because I've seen what cats can do. In my opinion, cats let us live because we're a bunch of saps who give them food and shower them with attention. In my humble opinion, anyone who think cats lack the mental capacity to do anything should be grateful that a cat hasn't stabbed them in their sleep and left their body in a shallow unmarked grave. I know for a fact that cats have plenty of mental capacity to do lots of things, such as get pissed off and hold grudges. And that's precisely what I did last night: piss off my cat.
I walked into my apartment last night around 8 PM and hurriedly dumped the laptop I was in the midst of fixing on the couch. I was hungry, tired and my feet hurt. I've been busy all week and have had little time for anything, including my cat. As I rushed around the apartment scrounging up food, I saw my recliner slowly turn to face me. In it was my cat. Now I don't know how she managed to move the chair. She's eight pounds on a fat day and she lacks legs long enough to reach the floor. But I swear to you that chair turned to face me and sitting in it was my cat, looking like she was about to kill something (and by something I mean me).
Unfortunately, despite the uneasy feeling in my gut, I simply had to finish up the laptop. So I ignored my cat for the better part of an hour, pretending like I didn't notice her staring. Finally, Moochie got fed up. She leaped up onto the coffee table, walked onto the keyboard and stepped on the power button, shutting it off and wiping out the last half hour of my work. Moochie had punished me for my negligence.
However, now that the slumbering beast had awoken, Moochie decided to drive the point home. As I groaned about my lost progress, she hopped up onto my lap and dug her claws right into my nether regions. That's right, my cat attempted to castrate me. She missed, thank Chluthu, but she attempted it all the same.
After she tried to rob the world of future Hoffers, Moochie stayed out of sight for the rest of the evening. She wasn't finished, however. That night, come bedtime, Moochie plopped her petite frame in the geometric center of the bed and sprawled out. When I tried to lay down, I found that she somehow relegated me to 1/3 of the bed. When I tried to move her, she simply dug all four sets of her claws into the mattress, daring me to try to move her and see what sort of damage she could inflict on my bedspread. Not having the funds to want to see her destroy my blankets and my balls temporarily out of commission from the injuries sustained earlier, I just took the small portion of the bed and gently petted her until I finally fell asleep in an uncomfortable position.
Now you may be thinking that I'm simply projecting or personifying my frustrations onto the cat. And you might be right. Maybe an animal with the brain the size of a tangerine can't get upset or lash out or unleash all of her female passive agresssiveness onto her owner. Maybe my weary sleep deprived mind is seeing things. But when I woke up and saw Moochie calmly sitting on top of the laptop the next morning as if to remind me of who exactly was the boss, I'm convinced that tiny terror is smarter than she looks.