Dead mouse and the peanut butter and the Deadmau5 and my bedroom. The third of these is pronounced the same way as the first, don’t ask me why or how. The second of these caused the death of the first of these (via sticky mouse trap) in the stairwell of the pub while the third of these, the gimmicky electronica legend, was played in the background. The fourth of these at times has smelled like the first two of these. Then I did laundry, burned incense, turned on a fan, and it has subsided. The window of my room is not functional, making my room the dank, dark, damp dungeon, locking in the moisture and moulding the bottom of my pillowcase. My clothes hang from some rope tied to the lattice ceiling, like a prison scene from the movies. And the worst part of all, really the only bad part, is waking up twice in a night to climb two flights of stairs to take a twelve-second piss. My bladder has a small volume and is taut like a water balloon.

When setting a mouse trap, one is often advised to set it along the wall. That is where they are said to stay, but in my rodent discoveries of the last month I haven’t found that to be true. I have found the following:
1. live mouse in the empty garbage can at work, set free in the alleyway by Norm
2. drowned squirrel bloated in the water-filled garbage can in the backyard
3. dead mouse in the bathroom of the pub, discovered by a drunk man with spiked hair
4. a mouse, alive, kicking and shrieking next to a glob of peanut butter, stuck to super sticky paper, slowly dying over the course of three days as I passed by it dozens of times to change kegs for the thirsty, horny masses.

One survived and one I watched die. The other two died long before I knew they were even alive. Most of these deaths had been in the open, and only one of them died in a trap designed for killing. The rest died in the traps they set for themselves. Ones that looked promising from the outside, but once inside, were nothing but tin holes with not even a chance to dig their way out. The trick is to learn which holes are dead ends and which holes will lead to glory. Norm isn’t always going to be there to bail you out. No one wants to die in the dank, dark, damp rooms with one exit and only one trail to the toilet.