A Life Sans Mittens

For a fortnight you waited.

And in the cockles of your heart, the warm glow of Mittens had retreated, leaving only the dying embers of a once great fire. Lamas. Kinkade. Ethan Snugglepants. It had been great while it lasted.

"What could Geoffrey possibly be doing?" you said. "Perhaps he's tired of Chocolate Mittens. Perhaps the fickle hand of inspiration has taken flight elsewhere."

You grasped at straws. Looking for an answer. Any answer. "Perhaps he’s turned his litterbox into a zen rock garden. Perhaps he’s curled up on the duvet, writing witty Haikus about naughty Squirrels.”

Well you may burn in hell. I did nothing of the sort, meow.

You see, I’ve been toiling feverishly behind the scenes here at Chocolate Mittens, laying the groundwork for the grand future of this fine establishment. And I assure you, Geoffrey Chocolate does not trifle away the day with small ideas.

In the meantime, you will have to trust in me. I’m not quite ready to share my master plan, but I can say that it will be worth the small inconvenience of two weeks without another arch-nemesis candidate.

Because after all, I have a dream. And my dreams are more interesting and cat-tastic than anyone else’s.