Of which we complain...

I would like to move now. I hate my apartment. I abhore Harlem. If Louis Armstrong and the Sugar Hill Gang dug Harlem so much, why didn’t they stay? Why does a short Jewish girl from suburban Philly need to stay?

I’ve lived in crap holes, with crap hole roommates – hello Bovine Monster of 92nd St. But things were tolerable. I can barely sleep at night, because I hear mice under my bed. I see them climbing on my bookshelf, crapping on my 2nd edition of Lolita, chewing the spines of my chick lit. They climb on my poor Rabbit’s cage, and squeak, taunting Jemima with their sweet freedom. “We can get in, you can’t out!!! Bitch” That’s what some say. Other’s probably treat Jemima as a Yoda figure, coming to her in the night, attempting to find answers to life’s mysteries. They go back to their home, under my radiator, with tales heralding great bravery in propelling themselves off my bureau.

Point is, I see three or four at a time. My roommate and I call the landlord, and he gives us the runaround. I have an incredibly difficult time with dead animals. If I find a dead mouse, I have a panic attack. My roommate insists on using glue traps to kill them. I hear them squeaking in agony, and it kills me. Two days later, they’re still alive, accepting their fate. Glue traps are psychological touture. For some reason, my roommate keeps them around, until completely dead. If they still alive after several days, she pours boiling water on them. Hitler smiles on her for this.
We’ve killed more mice in this apartment, then Ted Bundy “officially” murdered.