A mouse jumped out from the bin, almost at my face last night as I was throwing a cigarette butt (unlit) into it. This mouse- one so small it looks like you could fit it into a shot glass- is the son or daughter of the bastard that has been terrorising me for the past six months.
Its MO is one where it climbs up the wire-mesh bin in the cupboard below the sink, has itself a feed, and then scampers back under the oven where the bastard is probably feeding his aged mother and father, them now enjoying a life of luxury or also quite possibly are now dead, frozen stiff with their mouths open as they decompose.
It eats from the bin and not the mousetrap with peanut butter that I laid out near the fridge because, hey, that’s what I’d do too. This pest, although unwanted, has been my only form of contact other than the delivery guy and the barista at the coffee shop on my block. I have an exam tomorrow, and have been masturbating furiously in procrastination. I’ve been eating well, and have made roamed from the bed to the couch and to my desk regularly. I have stayed off wine, for two days now.
I smoke out the window and read, and sometimes daydream about when my next interaction will be, who it will be with, and what my voice will sound like when I actually speak for the first time in days.
Journalism is fucked, well mine anyway, because I’m too lazy or busy or jerking off to do any. School is slowing and I have no editor to ask for things or give me a kick to get going. Opinion pieces offer too many chances for others to criticise or prove me wrong, and my opinion is almost always usually wrong or at least changing anyway.
This mouse, though, is one thing I will not be changing my mind on.
Being outsmarted by anything doesn’t bother me, but there’s something offensive about being at least outdone by an intruder in your home, day by day by week and so on. I’m too lazy to care enough, so this being bin-raped by rodents will have to continue until I fall in the shower drunk one morning, die, and they feed on me for months until I’m found bloated and purple and pulling the same face that petrified mammals make by opening their mouths that makes them look like they’ve been screaming either that or the death rattle opened up their oesophagus wide enough to choke down a little mouse dick.