Mickey

I write this as I wait for my super, Mario, to save the day.

See, I am having one of those "shoot, I'm in charge?" kind of moments. I was sitting here minding my own business, sketching and watching Pretty Woman on TV.  All of a sudden, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I looked up towards my (very high) ceiling and noticed something odd.

It was a mouse sitting on top of the window molding looking at me.

< insert painfully loud shriek here >

I called Mario. His response? "Ay Dios mio!! I'm in Queens."

I texted my mother. Her response? "You need to kill it."
"With what?", I asked.
"A shoe? Hammer? Rolled up newspaper or a flamethrower."

Well gee, thanks guys.

Here I sit. Waiting on Mario to come back to Manhattan. I'm sitting on the back of my couch (feels safer somehow) and I glance at Mickey's perch every few seconds. I can't quite tell if he's still sitting up there or if he's returned to the hole in the wall whence he came.

For the most part, I like living on my own and taking care of myself. Someone wise once said that the most important steps in life are the ones you take all by yourself. Or as Kanye puts it, th-that don't kill me can only make me strong-er.

That's all unicorns & marshmallow fluff until a mouse is involved.

I'm off to sit and stare and wait on Mario.

Perhaps Scott Disick's voice that's now on my TV will be enough to scare little Mickey away for good.

until next time (if I don't die from disgust first),

g