Aw, rats.

NaBloPoMo, you are the cruelest mistress.

I guess I can talk about the fact that there is a fuckin’ rat living in my garage right now. A rat! And I’m torn, because on the one hand, common sense and a healthy fear of the plague has me pretty squicked out over the whole thing. But on the other hand, a steady childhood diet of animated movies featuring anthropomorphized rodents has a small-but-significant portion of my brain convinced that if I just put in the effort, I can befriend the creature, and then he’ll, like, turn out to be a gourmet chef or some badass criminal mastermind. Or better yet, a bitchy little queen who likes to spend his nights binge-eating and getting shitfaced…a-like so:

Man. I sure hope it’s a Paul Lynde rat living in my garage. Maybe I’ll leave a thimbleful of Jack Daniel’s out there tonight. If the thimble’s empty tomorrow morning? Helloooooo new best friend! And then my life will finally become the boozy fairy tale I always hoped it’d be.


2 thoughts on “Aw, rats.

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