Sometimes, it's very important to have a roommate. Take last night, for instance. Now, I have a roommate, but she was spending her evening elsewhere, which made it impossible for me to wake her up at 4 a.m. by dancing around from foot to foot and squealing like a girl because I think there's a mouse in my house. I was awoke from a deep slumber by the noises of what could only be some kind of small rodent-like creature attempting to burrow his way through my entire domicile. Either the damn thing was in my room (lurking, the motherfucker) or it was in the walls (trying to gnaw his way into my room, from whence to commence the lurking, the motherfucker). Since there was no roommate to wake up and share my suffering, I had to sit up alone, imagining all kinds of fierce mice-related coups d'etat.
Today, however, was a different story. When your roommate yells out in a panicked voice, "You have to come here right now," you do, in fact, go there right then. Jen had discovered a moth larva on our countertop. (Or, in layman's terms, a worm.) She was attempting to dispose of it, but despite much dancing from foot to foot, she couldn't get the job done. Now, I'm no fan of the larvae, but I was able to remove it from the countertop. We then proceeded to clean out our entire kitchen, removing anything that might be remotely appealing to a moth. It was a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
Yes, my home is a tale of mice and moths. God, I love old Boston houses in the winter.
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