Turns out she's not so nuts, and it's not so imaginary.
If my eyes were not failing me the other night (and they were not), I do indeed have a mouse in my house.
|Get outta my apartment, you summabitch.|
Oh yes. A mouse. I have named him Justin Bieber, since he makes the bitches go crazy. (I almost named him after one of the Beatles, but thought better of it. That damn rodent hasn't earned it.)
Ah, the joys of living in an older house that, although renovated, has all sorts of fun ways for those suckers to get in. I have no doubt that he was here long before me, and likely resents the four-legged presence I've brought him.
Let's not kid around here - I'm terrified of it. I screamed and punched out a ball of lint yesterday after mistaking it for the Justin Bieber Mouse. I'm on my guard, still sick and not sleeping properly, and I may need someone to come hold my hand at night while protecting me.
Thank god for Daisy.
Hey- Justin Bieber Mouse! You'd better watch yourself...
She's gonna getcha.