Effing, effing mice.

There is an effing, effing mouse in my house. I know there is an effing mouse in my house because this tiny beast had the nerve to show itself to me, scuttling along the wall behind my baker's rack. I cannot believe this.

I believed the roaches. They're pretty typical. But this effing mouse I cannot believe. Unbelievable.

This means I need an exterminator. This means I cannot walk anywhere in my apartment without worrying about rodent germs. I just kind of threw up in my mouth typing "rodent germs". Oh gawd.

I can't put my feet on the ground because I'm afraid a stupid mouse will run over my foot, maybe get confused by my movements and GET STUCK IN MY HOUSE SLIPPERS, UNDER MY FOOT.

Oh gawd. Barf in mouth.

Or what if they climb into my purse? And I go to buy myself tea, and I reach into my purse and when I pull my hand out there's a mouse writhing in it?

Oh gawd, this makes so much sense. Now I know why my neighbors have cats, against the apartment complex rules. They need something to catch the mice.

I feel so gross I want to shower. But I'm afraid if I go to shower, I will find a mouse in the tub with me, the way I was once luxuriating in the bath back home in Hawaii and, wondering what the squiggly feeling was against my leg, found a gecko in the tub with me.

This is such, SUCH bad news and I want to scream and cry and throw the rodent out the window all at once. THIS IS BULLSHIT, PEOPLE.

Gawd.