Hunca Munca Funka

I have a mouse, which is so exhausting.

- First of all, I don’t want a new activity. I’m already just as baseline eternally worried about my weight/money/death, and now it’s the end of the world and I’m also doing a drag workshop and attempting to remain employed and I just started dating someone and mademoiselle’s planner is full to the very brim. I don’t want to pencil in rodent management.

- There is no lazy way to do this. Remember how some problems you can half-ass away by “not getting an HIV test” and “pretending your anxiety levels are normal” and “not looking directly AT your credit card balance” and “refusing to purchase a blood pressure monitor” and and AND? (Don’t @ me, I eventually addressed all these except the blood pressure cuff.) This bold little fucker looked at me. In the daytime.

- And I can’t just throw something at it like it’s a man. Because if I hit an entire mouse with a hand weight it will SPLAT, or I’ll miss and break something (and I love my things). And if I throw something light at it “to send a message,” well, at a certain point I’m a 35-year-old (lol) man (LOL) throwing binder clips at a mouse, and that’s not the kind of behavior that passes a wellness check.

- I am aware that mice fuck and that if I put this off I will have MOUSES and then MICE and then A HORDE OF MICE.

- Mice carry disease and can you imagine, can you not just see the headline, if I died of the “wrong” pathogen during a pandemic? “Endearing Buffoon Fucks Up Once More on Way Out.” “Goddammit Chris, Quit Trying to Be Different (I Guess You Did But You Know What I Mean).” “Area Man Follows Different Drummer, Virus.”


- Trapping it under a glass is 1) improbable at my level of dexterity 2) just a new Goddamn problem, because then I have “a glass of mouse” and I still have to kill it or let it go outside and pretend it’s a new mouse when it comes back in forty-five minutes later.

- What would I EVEN kill a mouse in a glass with. I have a new weapon for keeping by the bed because the illusion of being able to confront an intruder is important, but it’s a length of pipe I found on the ground two weeks ago and christened “Amy Klobberchar.” This is Too Much for a mouse, plus we’re back to the Gallagher factor.

- I can’t burn the house down because I have a roommate I like and all my beloved things are here.

- I can’t pretend it’s a pet because I recently went on a public tirade about how I refuse to live with an exotic pet ever again, because they smell bad or escape or die or have to be kept moist or have to be fed motherfucking crickets or have to be EXPLAINED and (you knew Mom would show up in this) my mother used to TAKE HER IGUANA ON A LEASH TO THE MALL and can’t I just get a RESCUE BOSTON TERRIER LIKE AN AGING HOMO, I DON’T WANT A WEIRD PET, LIZARD PEOPLE SELL METH. (Don’t @ me.)

- I have EXTREME “unwanted animals in the bedroom” trauma from having bedbugs in 2015, which is the ONLY bad thing that’s ever happened to me that I’m totally unable to joke about.

- Besides I found a mouse turd on the bar cart and I’m not willing to forgive that, it’s from Target but I assembled it myself on the second try.

So I guess I’m just going to Amazon some mousetraps like a Goddamn Nazi and then write you all the story of when I tried to join a gay kickball league. (Spoiler alert: I hated it!) Stay tuned.
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