Hey Roberto,

You’re probably in that great cheese wedge in the sky right now.  At least–I hope you are.  Look, don’t get angry at me.  It’s not like I didn’t save your life when I found you in my toilet a few weeks ago.  In fact, when I released you I clearly remember saying “Don’t come back little dude!” as you scurried away.  I watched you wedge yourself under the concrete thinking you were moving along to bigger and better things, but in reality you came RIGHT BACK into my house.

I began hearing you scraping around under my bed every night at 3am.  My bed, Roberto?  Really?  Is there an after hours bar under there or something?  What is so interesting?  I did what any sane woman would do.  I put mouse traps all over my house.  I had to Roberto!  I let the toilet incident slide, but you clearly ignored me when I told you not to come back.  And that’s rude Roberto, just rude.

Last night I was woken up by your scratching and squeaking.  I peered over my bed to find the mouse trap poking out from under my bed skirt–occasionally jerking from side to side.  *sigh* I couldn’t kill you myself!  I really didn’t want to. Things would have been so much easier for the both of us if I had someone there to smash your head in, but sadly I’m single.  So I did the only thing I could think of.  I threw you out the back window onto my roof.

Oh, Roberto.  I could hear you squeaking,  “But the sun is rising!”, “Birds will be out soon!”, “There are stray cats all over this neighborhood!”   I quietly whispered to the night sky, “Shhhhhh.  Roberto.  Shhhh.” as I closed the window and left you to your fate.  I woke up this morning, only to find you weren’t still glued to that piece of cardboard.  Roberto, I hope someone ate you.  Because if you DID manage to escape and I DO hear you under my bed again, I have three words for you, Roberto.

This. Means. War.