Monday nights are supposed to be my “lazy” night–I stop at Red Box, get a movie I’d be too embarrassed to watch with anyone else, and am in my pajamas by 5:30. That was not the case tonight . . .
This story begins with the early morning. I had just parked my car at work and was reaching around in my backseat to grab my book. I lifted up a sweatshirt and there it was, just laying there on the floor: A DEAD MOUSE.
I felt the urge to vomit, but luckily held it in. It didn’t smell, and was actually quite a cute mouse, but the thought of it being IN MY CAR, running around over my feet while driving, was enough to make me ill.
All day at work my thoughts would drift back to that mouse and I would feel nauseous. So bad I couldn’t even go to lunch.
Finally, in the afternoon, I decided to do something about it. I went and found Janitor, asking him for rubber gloves. When I went to explain what the deal was, I started gagging. Again, not so much because I hate mice, but because the idea of mice in my car is gross and disgusting.
Janitor had me pull my car around, and then he used some sort of tongs to pull the mouse’s lifeless body out of my backseat. Oh, the mouse was named Elliott, after Elliott Smith. Because, obviously, he wanted to die and was a tortured soul.
After Elliott was disposed of, I promptly ran inside . . . and disposed of the contents of my stomach.
Just the thought of a mouse running over my foot while driving, or pooping all over my car, or nibbling on me . . . UGHHH!
On the drive home, anyone who passed me most of the thought I was crazy. I’d hear a rustling (I drove with my windows down) and shudder or scream or feel like I was going to barf. And repeat. About once a minute.
I got home, grabbed a pair of gloves, and cleaned all the trash and unneeded junk out of my car. Then I went over to Blake’s and vacuumed it clean. Luckily, I didn’t find any of Elliott’s friends (Kurt, Hunter, Sylvia) hiding about.
I guess this teaches me for keeping my car as filthy as I have been . . .