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I Had A Problem, But I Killed It. before/after I had a problem, and I solved it. There was a mouse in the house, but like Lucretia Borgia, I dispatched that presumptive little pest. Any of his family will have a nice surprise, also. The thing about the mouse is, no one but me seemed interested in doing anything. In a guy's house, laziness rules. There is such a split-responsibility experiment going on, Oliver Sachs would piss his pants in excitement if he found out. So I went and got some industrial strength poison to take care of the problem. Years past, my Dad had built a large garage on the back of the property, and had problems with mice in it. So he got some poison. He opened a couple packs, and there was never a problem since. A few years after that, I got an apartment, and the chain-smoking, gin drinking apartment land-lady suckered me. (there's no pests here at all, honey. Ever. I wouldn't rent it to you if there was a problem.) She lied, and we were set upon. Eventually I took action, as I CANNOT tolerate such filth living (there is a difference between being poor and being dirty. I can accept poverty by myself and others, but CANNOT stand being dirty. I used to take children out of homes as a social worker for that very reason.), and opened one pack of the poison under the sink. It not only killed the one perfidious pest, it also drove any others away, so much so that they set upon the neighbors. This was corroborated later, when I chanced into one of maybe two conversations with the neighbors in the year that I lived there, and they complained of a sudden influx of rodentia. I pushed for when it started, and it roughly correlated with the time I threw down the poison. It was embarassing buying the poison, tantamount to declaring that I live with filth, and then not only that, but it has progressed to such a point that I need Industrial type stuff to rectify the problem. So I threw the poison down in several places, and kept my eyes peeled. Thanksgiving day arrives. Don is throwing a dinner. The house is full. And what do I find, but one petulant pest corpse, apparently struggled over to the heater to warm himself as his organs ruptured. However, I felt wrong about carrying a mouse corpse out in front of holiday company who were getting set to eat a Thanksgiving bounty, so I swept it into a dust-pan and let it sit until I got home, eight hours later. By the time I had gotten home, little mouse rigor mortis had set in, and his limbs were akimbo. One little mouse arm was stuck straight into the air. So, I "did the nasty" and threw the fucker out. And that's the mouse story. That's the entire recounting, of the mouse story.
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