Of Mice and Murder
Thinking the shape was chimerical, I looked back at the screen towards Zach Braff and ignored it. When I looked back down to the floor, I realized what was once my eyes playing tricks on me again, a flash of light from outside, perhaps; was certainly not. It was moving. And as it happened the first time*, I jumped on my bed, which is dangerously low to the ground and makes it easy for a little Mickey or Stuart Little to gnaw at my eye lashes, and screamed. Though it was a Friday night and surely no one could hear me and even my non-drinking, footsie playing roommate was out. I was completely alone at , just me and another mammal whose mere presence had once again set me into a fit of convulsions…and screaming.
Normal procedure is to run for the nearest exit hollering about the rabid rodent that had made its way out of the cold into my closet amongst my cashmere. And while I do feel for those things that are out in the cold my thought is that if I am not bothering you and crashing into your home and leaving poop in your closet, then you should do me the same. And if you do intrude into my surroundings, I reserve the right to beat the shit out of you and/or kick you and/or pray that you fall into a glue trap and make sure that you die of asphyxiation in a plastic grocery bag.
Anyway, I stood on top of my pseudo desk chair, questioning why God made such disgusting animals who can’t understand the phrase “dude, leave me the fuck alone”. So I stood and recalled that I had Kris’ keys. Kris who was in the boonies of Shenandoah without a cell phone signal, and so I did what any normal Human being who feels like a mouse, roughly the size of a pen cap would eat her head, would do; I broke into Kris’ mouse free apartment and slept on the couch and had pleasant dreams of the mouse with a noose around it’s neck.
Two nights later, I finally had to sleep back in my own bed and stayed up long enough to see the little fucker come in underneath my door. So I did what any sensible person would do: I placed a large suitcase in front of the door. And when the little shit surreptiously managed to evade my brilliant large suitcase, I was resourceful and made good use of a hard cover copy of Little Women, thank God that Luisa May was prolific and managed to write a giant book perfect for blocking doors from mice. And the remainder of the door was blocked off with The Alchemist, some Augusten Burroughs, Salinger, and a giant copy of East of Eden, oh and The Bible: The impenetrable wall of doom.
I haven’t seen it since. I’m sure it’s still slinking around like a clandestine spy and telling its little cohorts that I have traps set up. I’ve been sleeping with the covers over my head as to prevent actually catching sight of it, but I can practically feel it taunting me. But now that I’m good and pissed and less terrified, it’s more like I could kill the fucker with one swift kick to the ass with my size 11 foot. And I’m sure that dropping said copy of Little Women on it, might very well do the trick. Either way, that little motherfucker is going down.
*different state, different mouse. Awesome.