I don't think you're cute

There are a lot of reasons to live in New York. A billion people live here (I tried to walk through Chinatown the other day--a billion seems like a conservative estimate) despite it being vomit-inducingly expensive, so there has to be a reason. I love it. I really do. I “heart” NY or whatever, ok? What I don’t “heart” (other than people saying “I heart…” things--honestly, that needs to stop) are mice. Also poor people, waking up early, and the blind. Sunglasses inside? Come on.  But right now, mice. They run too fast, their teeth can cut through titanium, the long tail and that claw-paw are scary and they look like Joanna Garcia. And Sunday night, we came face to pointy face. Most girls are afraid of mice, but I’m a strong, independent woman. You can’t come into my house and push me around. Who do you think you are? So I got off the chair, put my fears aside, tucked my pajama pants into my Hunters......and called Jeff to come over and get this thing out of my apartment, because *ear-piercing shrieks*.

After taking 68 bags and 112 pairs of shoes off the floor of my closet (and realizing I might be a hoarder) we finally found him behind the bed, and devised a plan of sticky traps and pathways that too ironically resembled a 50’s science experiment that ended with toxic glue instead of cheese.

Some people get all up in arms about glue traps being inhumane (*see idiots below) and even Jeff had a look of guilt on his face as he picked him up and took him outside to the trash, but I don’t share that sentiment. They’re rodents, not pets. Movies make you think they’re cute and friendly, but I didn’t hear one note of "Somewhere Out There," and he wasn’t wearing a hat or a jacket or anything.

I thought about doing whatever it is you’re supposed to do to free them from the glue (if there is such a thing) so that he could spread the word about 1B and the terror he had endured there, but then I remembered that my campaign platform is “tough on crime." 



*This isn't helping, PETA.  It's just embarrassing.  (Is that one girl topless?)