I see an effing mouse fly across my kitchen floor.
Sometimes I like to pretend like I'm some badass, and so my best self might expect me to take it in stride, but my best self is completely wrong.
I flipping screamed.
What, you're like the mouse wrangler? You would have screamed too. I cannot LIVE with a mouse in my house. This is one of those times when I wish the words "mouse" and "house" didn't rhyme, so you wouldn't be distracted by the Seussiness of it and could grasp the flipping SEVERITY of this situation.
To make matters worse, based on where my keys were sitting, I now had to walk through the kitchen to get back out of the house. So I did what anyone would do: I stomp-walked through the kitchen. This involves stomping your feet as loud as humanly possible as you walk. This was to alarm the mouse to the fact that I was coming, hopefully keeping him in hiding. Then, when I got to the keys, I continued to stomp-walk while jingling my keys. I'm not sure what that was about, but it made me feel better.
Heads up, mouse: I'M COMING BACK WITH TRAPS, SUCKA.
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