EXTERMINATOR!

OF GODS AND VARMINTS

Ever since I moved back to Brooklyn in August, in addition to all the other major life upheavals, I have had a mouse problem that has only gotten worse and worse, despite repeated visits from the exterminator, whose contraptions full of poison don’t seem to do anything but fortify the little fuckers like X-Men.

When your nerves are already jangling like a gamelan orchestra, vermin can be greatly unsettling. I suppose my neighbors now think I have Tourettes, since I am constantly screaming and shouting swear words like I’m pushing a baby stroller full of garbage.

At first the mice confined themselves to attacking bags of trash or groceries left too long on my kitchen floor. They’d chew holes in them in under a minute.

Then they started frolicking openly in my kitchen, and boring a frayed hole in my mental balance.

One scuttled across the floor and made a foray into the laundry …