The Mouse Can[‘t] Hurt You

October 11, 2014 | 3:13 am A mouse trumps almost any other problem.

Any and all thoughts or prayers I have about my writing or relationships or lack there of either: gone. I am only worried about a mouse tracking me, finding me, transforming into some kind of amazon anaconda and eating me. One ran across my person once, so that’s pretty much the same thing.

Everyone keeps saying: he can’t hurt you. The mouse can’t hurt you. The same way radiation can’t hurt you? I mean what are we talking about here?

Everything starts to look like mice: clips on the floor, bookmaking tools. Even impossible things: ink pens, my own feet.

You challenge everything in your apartment: wait. Whose remote is that? I don’t remember that remote, who put that remote here?

I also start blaming him for all my problems: he’s the reason my Internet has been so terrible lately. The reason I can’t keep a man.

That bastard took my phone charger!

Heard a car swerve right outside my window: mouse.

He’s ruined bags for me.

He’s taught me how I deal with fear: I let it consume me. I let the “what ifs” rule who I am. I either err on the side of seizing a false sense of control over my life or panic.

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Writer’s Note: This post is part of a larger series called, “Self-Portrait: [selected] Notes from my Phone.” It’s an experiment with honesty of sorts.

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