There’s a dead mouse smack dab in the middle of my f*ing backyard patio.
This is a problem on a level that just might supersede my fear of toilets and flying bugs…not necessarily together, and sure as shit separate and apart.
I discovered said deceased mouse not upon my initial steps out onto the back steps…
…not upon my walking across said patio…
…but immediately after removing the two grills from the BBQ (which, incidentally, I shouldn’t be doing but wanted to so that I could eat steak tonight because life is good with steak on the BBQ and cheers me the f*k up)…dirty and grimey and…
…as I did the Spastic Hokey Pokey and turned it the fuck around.
I don’t apologize for the language.
IT. IS. A. DEAD. MOUSE.
IT. TOUCHED. MY. BARE. FOOT.
I cannot adequately stress the magnitude of this disaster.
I did what any fiercely independent woman would do…
I called my husband like a little girl and fought back tears asking him to PLEASEFORTHELOVEOFALLTHINGSHOLY dispose of said dead mouse upon his return home this eve’.
How does this, in any way, relate to living with a chronic illness such as systemic lupus erythematosus with organ involvement?
I didn’t have a f*ing heart attack.
Today’s post is interactive…like a messed up Look’N’Find: