Rambo V: First Blood Again, But This Time It's a Mouse - A Retro Diary

Let me start off by saying I've lived on my own, in my own apartment before. I lived in dorms for two years at school, but quickly moved off campus as soon as it was allowed (my school required freshman and sophomores to live in dorms, most likely to force people to make friends with people they would quickly wish they hadn't done so with).

For three years I lived on my own, in what can be described as absolute squalor. It was not uncommon for me to say things like "I wonder who dumped out the entire bag of sugar onto the floor last night?" or "Why is there a kitchen knife stuck into the wall?"

I'm just sleepin' bro.

College was fun. But I would never consider those apartments or dorm rooms my "home" (save the time I accidentally signed up my freshman dorm as my billing address for an ATM card, rendering its ability to purchase Microsoft Points on Xbox live useless for many years).

I moved home after college, and this September I moved to Boston. Or, more specifically Allston. Or, even more specifically, Rat City. Before I moved out, I decided that I wanted to live with a (relatively clean) roommate in a nice apartment, where I wouldn't need to worry about walking around on broken glass (#LENNOX) accidentally, or finding old Chinese food sitting under a radiator. I know, I know, lofty goals indeed. Luckily I found that situation, moved out, and went about making it into the best version of my "home" I could muster. Nothing will replace the home I lived in my whole life, but I've done an OK job. I'm comfortable. Or, I was comfortable until FIRST BLOOD was drawn. Sometime in December, I discovered that a mouse had been feasting in my pantry. Here is a brief timeline:

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Last night I bought the equivalent of a mouse sized World War I defense stockpile. I bought a ton of steel wool (barbed wire) to cram into any mouse sized holes. I bought an adhesive foam (bunkers) to make sure the steel wool couldn't be easily pushed out of the holes. I bought a boatload of glue traps (infantry) to target specific areas that he's been known to frequent. Finally, I lined the ONLY entrance to the pantry with a wall of glue traps, stuck to the floor with duct tape (courage). If he wants to wiggle his tiny mouse body under the door of my pantry, he will be charging headlong into machine gun fire.

I will protect my bags of Doritos with my life if need be.

This morning I was prepared to find a writhing, half alive, mouse in one of the many glue traps I had set up over night. This morning? NOTHING. The assault must've been called off. Either that or my new line of barbed wire and bunkers held. Either way, we settle into an uneasy stalemate, similar to the Western Front of 1915. I'm not saying that I'm prepared to use mustard gas on this guy, but a man can only be pushed so far. War is hell.