Superkitten ATTACK!

As if the roach incident this weekend wasn't bad enough, tonight the fuzzy prowler who protects my home dropped. In front of me. A mouse. A fucking mouse. I can't even handles roaches without dumping vats of Clorox onto every surface and down every drain I can find. I swept through my entire apartment on Saturday with a jar of superspackle and a blade, covering every crack and hole, no matter how tiny the possibility that a roach, spider, or, no shit this happened, cricket could get through. I washed all of my sheets and blankets, scrubbed down the bathroom in its entirety, and cleaned out the fridge. Hey, I'm single. I've got time on my hands to take care of this kind of throwdown.

But how could, not more than 48 hours after the roach incident, my white-socked warrior find a mouse? A fucking mouse. In my living room. Or, god, what if he found him in the bedroom? I hardly sleep anyway, and this is not going to help. There aren't any dropping in the kitchen and I haven't seen anything eaten through. But it got in somehow, somewhere, and I doubt I'll be able to eat anything until I figure out where.

I have never been more proud of the captain. He didn't kill the thing - it was a baby, which probably makes the rodent situation worse - and he presented it to me, at my foot, like he had just won it by being the first to discover time travel while climbing mount Kilimanjaro with six orphan children on his back who he had just rescued from rabid mountain lions. His works is done. I have to find a new apartment immediately.