I like stuff. MY stuff to be precise. I love to have nice stuff. If you are a student of mine, past or present, yes, I have violated my own rule three times. Don't use the word stuff in writing. Be specific. However, it would take me hours to be THAT specific: shoes, clothes, bags, purses, gifts I've painstakingly selected for my kids, and furniture that my husband and I agree upon are just the tip of the iceberg.
So, when I feel like the quality of my life is being ruined because my stuff is being jeopardized, I lose my shit - figuratively, of course. And what makes it worse is that my stuff is being threatened by a 3 inch little bastard. Talk about small man syndrome.
The war has been waged; the first battle went to Mr. Nasty who got a free meal of peanut butter, then decided to saunter into MY bedroom, across MY new rug, while I was getting dressed. The absolute panic that ensued forced me out of my house in clothing and shoes that were definitely questionable. In fact, I'm not even sure they matched. I guess I'm just lucky I got out of there with a PAIR of shoes.
I spent the day yesterday floating between a state of anxiety and anger. I pictured that varmint crawling up my quilt, lounging on my pillow, rolling around in glee. I thought of him meandering around the house, partaking in crumbs that the naked eye couldn't see, then inviting his friends over for a little party at the Kerr's.
I was a little light headed and beyond irritated by the day's end. HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE LEANN WHEN SOMEONE IS MESSING WITH HER STUFF AND DEPOSITING GERMS ALL OVER HER HOUSE. It was time for defense and a hefty dose of D-Con.
I hope you enjoyed your snack last night, little critter. You might have won the battle, but I've won the war. If anyone needs me, I'll be disinfecting until the end of the week. BARF.
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