Yeah, they don’t look like that in person. If they did, perhaps I wouldn’t be huddled up in my bed debating whether or not I should trek over to my friend’s house (AGAIN!).
Before you give me the standard, “Stop being a punk!” response, give me a break – I am from Texas. We don’t do rats. Well, I damn sure don’t. Nutty squirrels, sure. Roaches the size of Arizona, (grits teeth) you deal with. Mice, rats, and squirrels carrying chicken bones in their mouths (I kid you not), hell nawl.
I have tried my hardest to deal with my living situation; but enough is enough. A year ago, because someone either tried to break into the house through the basement or some genius left the door open, a rat poplocked its way onto the first floor. I swear, I heard it blasting Lil Jon. The second I saw it, I ran up stairs quicker than you can say, “Look, Ma, he can fly.”
I attempted to change my flight that very night so I could go home a day early for Thanksgiving break. Damn those fees to hell; I was stuck. Luckily, I was able to stay with a friend. Too bad that friend was from Brooklyn (where the rats rep the borough just as hard as any other Brooklynite) and had a great laugh at my expense. Actually, everyone laughed. Bah.
Fast forward a year later and I’m seen a few of Mickey and Minnie’s wayward offspring every so often — though never in my own room. So much for that. That trife mouse scurried its way under the door and ran across my shoebox of a room to the laundry area. I can’t find it to kill it (A dash of COURAAAAGE indeed), so I’m stuck. Haven’t moved much in over an hour.
I was having a great day until this uninvited guest decided to use my room for tonight’s bunker. Yeah, this isn’t going to work at all. Must.find.new.place.to.live.
Yes, I know this is D.C. and it’s commonplace. But, that doesn’t mean I ought to be at their front door. I know I yearn to live in New York, but I consider the 800th wheel conundrum something to worry about once I arrive.