Dear Mice That Have Taken Over My Apartment,

Dear Mice That Have Taken Over My Apartment:

Okay guys, you win.  I am waving the white flag.  And you know what?  It has a motherfucking mouse on it because, clearly, you fine gentlemen are the superior species.

I tried to work with you.  I ignored the pitter-patter of your annoying-as-hell little mouse feet in my walls at 3am when I was trying to sleep.  I turned a blind eye when you broke into my pantry and ate all my cereal and the Three Musketeers bar that I was saving for a special occasion, and then DIED in my pantry (undoubtedly of a food overdose a la Templeton from Charlotte’s Web...the animated version, not the book or the ridiculous live version).

I was not angry when I came home from work one morning to find you all having an orgy on my love seat.  I mostly found it disgusting, amusing, and somewhat ironic that you were all getting laid and I wasn’t.  I hope you were using protection, mostly for the sake of my couch.  As soon as I walked in, the 3 of you scattered back to your hole in the kitchen as if to say “Run! The jig is up!”.

I’ve been good to you, mice.  I really have.  I could have purchased the cheap dollar-store mouse traps that would snap your little necks in one swift movement.  However, I did not.  I chased you with spatulas, paper bags, homemade traps, brooms, hangers, and hair brushes.

Finally, I went out and bought a “live-trap” for 15$ which would not kill you (I have to admit, after chasing you around my apartment for so long, I couldn’t help but notice how cute you all are) but would simply catch you so that I may release you into the wild where you belong.

I caught one of you successfully (I named you Alfredo).  I thought all was going well, and that the capture had served as a sort of mafia-style warning for the rest of you (sure, no killing was involved…but a mysterious disappearance is a pretty good warning).  I no longer saw you doing it with each other, eating my food, or heard you running merrily through my walls.

Peace at last.

But no.

Alas, you found the trap that I had decided to store out in the garage while it wasn’t being used.  You, the whole colony of you, decided to make that small tin box your home.  Eight of you idiots crammed yourself into that trap to get cozy and probably have sex and play strip poker and do all sorts of awesome things together while I was away for the weekend.

And you know what the worst part was for you?

You probably enjoyed it until you realized you could never leave.  A pleasure island for mice.  So, you all died in there, unbeknownst to me.

A few days later, I recognized the unmistakable smell of dead body emanating from the trap in my garage.  ‘How very ironic,’ I thought as I realized that I had wasted 15$ to keep a mouse alive with this expensive trap when it obviously had a death wish.  I dreaded opening that trap, but I really only thought there was one mouse in there…so I opened it.

What I found shocked me.  There you all were.  All eight of you in various stages of decomposition, obviously having followed the others like a little mouse cult.  I hope you all enjoyed the Kool-aid, my friends, because that is the last time I spend 15$ on a mouse trap that is supposed to keep you alive.  You all live recklessly anyway.  So, hats off to you.

Thanks for giving me a final “fuck you” before you all finally left my apartment.

You win.

Touche.