11/20/2025
Too cute 🥰
Hello.
It is I.
The Jersey Cinnamon Roll.
The icon of the barn.
The drama queen the universe feared creating.
Wrapped — no, enthroned — in my black gangster blanket, which makes me look like I’m about to demand tribute from neighboring pens. I glide beneath this blanket with the energy of a baby mafia boss who knows she runs the world.
And today, I bring you a report so tragic, so harrowing, so emotionally devastating that even my blanket struggled to stay on my body:
My bottle was one minute and thirty seconds late.
Yes.
*Late.*
***Ninety*** criminal seconds.
Seconds during which I, a fragile blossom of dairy magnificence, was left to face the cold abyss of hunger with nothing but my gangster blanket and my will to survive.
At the exact moment breakfast was due, I rose from my bedding like a small, elegant mob boss preparing to negotiate terms. My blanket draped across me like royalty. My ears perfectly positioned. My face radiating innocence and expectations.
But the bottle did not come.
At fifteen seconds late, I narrowed my eyes and squinted into the distance as if that alone would summon her. I assumed my human had tripped over her own feet as she does every third Thursday of existence.
At thirty seconds late, I whispered dramatically to the shadows, “So this is how betrayal feels.”
At forty-five seconds, I repositioned my blanket into more of a dramatic cape and stared toward the barn door like a calf contemplating the end of days. I made sure my expression said: fragile yet devastatingly beautiful.
At one minute late, I began planning my funeral. Not just contemplating it—actively designing it. I imagined slow-motion wind blowing through my fuzzy coat as somber music played. My gangster blanket would be draped over a milk bottle like a fallen hero’s flag. Sparrows would gather. Cows would lower their heads. My human would collapse in guilt, weeping: “If only I had been on time!”
At one minute fifteen seconds, my tummy growled with the dramatic force of a thousand thunderclouds. I flinched. A single tear (internally) fell.
At one minute and thirty seconds, I began reciting my own eulogy. In my head, the words rang out over the silent barn: "She lived passionately. She suffered beautifully. She was denied breakfast for precisely ninety seconds, and though she fought valiantly, her tiny heart simply could not bear it.”
I was ready to collapse into my blanket like a fainting Victorian socialite when suddenly—
**She arrived.**
My human burst in looking like she’d wrestled a tornado in the parking lot. Messy hair semi-contained under a baseball cap and smelling like three different energy drinks arguing about custody. She gasped, “Sorry! I’m running behind!”
Behind?
BEHIND??
Ma’am, I have aged ten emotional years.
I took that bottle with the icy grace of someone who has known deep betrayal. I drank like a calf reclaiming her birthright. I glared between gulps. I made sure she felt the weight of my suffering.
And then—because she scratched that perfect spot under my chin—I forgave her instantly. I am weak. I am soft. I am powered by milk and affection. My gangster blanket does nothing to prevent this.
Make no mistake: this ordeal will be remembered. It will be written in calf lore. Generations will speak of the Day of the Late Bottle and the cinnamon roll who survived it with unbelievable beauty and astonishing melodrama.
---
**Cinnamon Roll, signing out.**
Draped in my gangster blanket.
Glorious. Dramatic. Wronged.
And still judging my human’s punctuality.
