Things I Want to Do After Learning that a Mouse Lives in Our Kitchen

  • Burn everything and swear off food forever
  • Just die
  • Buy every cat for protection
  • Scream angry opera music until the mouse goes deaf and confused and leaves of its own accord
  • Burn down my building
  • Eat a lot of garlic.  I feel like mice must not like garlic.
  • Wear wooden clogs everywhere inside
  • Explain very carefully to the mouse that although we’ve been having an unusual amount of guests lately, that invitation never extended to you or that godawful silverfish that scampered up my leg yesterday
  • Learn how to walk on the ceiling so the mouse has no chance of getting my toes
  • Learn German
  • Move
  • Have a serious talk with God about it, and then ask him a lot of more important (but less urgent) questions later
  • Axes everywhere
  • Run very fast until my feet turn into wings and I fly around the world three times
  • Live on the roof instead
  • Adopt the mouse as a pet, lull it into a false sense of security, then throw it under a bus
  • Take six thousand showers
  • Tell all of the mice that there are no cats in Russia, put them on a boat there, and then launch a missile at the boat once it’s out at sea.  Suck it, Fievel.

 

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Yes, you.  Stop that.  You are not cute.  I see your rattail and your fur and your scritchy little clawhands.  You are diseased and disgusting and definitely not invited to anything of mine ever.  I hope you choke on our stale rice.

 

This post originally appeared on Vagabond Homebody

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