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.