Mice. My house has them. Part of me thinks that this house is rightfully theirs, and I'm a jerk for trying to keep them out. It's not natural to have this giant fake mansion that these magical woodland creatures can't reside in . Then one ran over my foot while I was in bed. What an asshole. He needs to stay on his side of my room. I put the tape down. How stupid can this guy be? I've tried everything to get rid of it. Tomorrow I'm dying my hair so the mouse will think he's in the wrong house. Either that or I'm putting my mom on speakerphone so she can guilt him into leaving.
Like, if I wanted to clean up after someone else, I'd, well, I just wouldn't. That's not me. This mouse is not allowing me to be myself. All of a sudden I'm wearing footwear and making apologies like a battered housewife. I make excuses to my friends. I'm kidding of course. No one comes over here. It's my fortress. I need to be free to wear housedresses and check expiration dates on condiments at a moment's notice. I have important work, I can't be tied down to "people".
You're welcome.
