Thursday, April 25, 2013 5:42 am.
There’s a mouse in my room. Right now. I can hear it rattling around inside a plastic bag on the floor. A few years ago, this would have totally freaked me out. Today, I merely shrugged (or I would have if I wasn’t lying in bed), rolled over and went back to sleep for a little while before picking up my laptop and writing this post.
This is the part where I would normally start ranting and raving about my messy, careless roommates (of which there are several), but this one is all on me. Well….mostly me anyway.
See, I’ve been in a bit of a funk lately. Consequently, I’ve been slacking on many of the tasks that are usually part of my everyday routine. To better illustrate the point, in the past few weeks I’ve felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment just for getting out of bed, eating food and taking a shower. Cleaning on the other hand…
* I haven’t cooked a meal in my kitchen since March. I know it’s not that impressive (hell, I have friends who use their kitchen for extra closet space) but for someone who was on a paleo-style health kick, that’s a lot of take-out.
* The bathroom, the kitchen, along with every other room in my house haven’t been cleaned for months. Months. This is, in part, because I’ve been travelling a lot lately, but it’s mostly laziness and lack of will. Now I know what you must be thinking, ‘Sarah,’ you say, ‘shouldn’t your roommates be helping you clean the apartment at least a little bit?’ To which I would respond, ‘Why yes, yes they should, but they don’t so I probably shouldn’t expect them to start now just because I’m too depressed to pick up a fucking mop.’
* I haven’t taken out the trash in weeks. I’m not talking about the kitchen trash (which I also haven’t touched) because as I mentioned earlier, I haven’t been in my kitchen for a month. I’m talking about my bedroom trash, which is full of half-eaten take-out containers, greasy paper bags and crumpled up napkins. Every time it gets full I simply tie it up, throw it in the corner of the room and use the newest plastic bag from my latest take-out meal to start a new one.
Hence, the mouse.
(I just happened to think, my poor mother must be absolutely mortified right now – sorry Mom!)
Anyway, it’s too early to take the trash out now. It’s only 6:23 and the trash room won’t be open until 7am – and that’s if the porter (do they still call them porters? Janitor, maybe?) gets here on time. So instead I went out to the kitchen, got a larger trash bag, put all the smaller bags (which are full of mouse holes) inside of it, tied it up and put it back in the same corner behind my door.
At the very least, I figure the thicker plastic will be harder for the mouse to gnaw through.
As I typed that last line, I saw the mouse run behind my bureau. I’ve got news for you asshole, you’re not going to find anything under there except a baited glue trap with your name on it.
I know, I know I should use more humane mouse traps, but I won’t because a) I don’t want to pay for some expensive ‘mouse hotel’ that’s just going to take up precious floor space in my apartment, b) I don’t want to clean up the blood and guts that are often associated with more conventional spring-loaded traps, and c) I believe in evolution and if that mouse is strong/fast/clever enough to escape the trap, then it deserves to live in my room and eat my trash – if not, it becomes dinner for one of the many feral cats living in the basement. Why? Because Darwin, that’s why.
Fortunately, this wallowing in my own crapulence stint has to come to an end today. My best friend is coming to stay for a long weekend and no matter how crappy I may be feeling, I would never subject anyone else to the disgusting mess that is my room. (See that ma, I still have some pride.)
Oh! What’s that I hear? Is that the tell-tale squeaking of a terrified mouse, too stupid to realize that the delicious smell under my dresser is only banana-scented glue? I think it is.
Heeeeeeere kitty, kitty….