I think the mice broke me.
See, they weren’t actually living in my closet. No, indeed. And they weren’t living in that puzzle-box beneath my night-stand. Oh, no. They’re living under the floor, in a spot just below the head of my bed, so that if I make noises in that spot at the head of my bed, I’ll hear very faint squeaking.
How the mice make their way into my room at night is still a mystery: originally it was thought that they crawled in through a very tiny hole in my closet where the door-frame meets the greatly sloping 45 degree ceiling, but that’s been ruled as highly unlikely. Then it was thought that they might come in through the cover-less electrical outlet that’s in that same area, until we replaced the cover of the outlet and nothing about the nocturnal appearances of the mice changed. So yes. Baffled. That’s what I am.
WHY these mice scamper all through my room at stupid hours of the morning is due to the fact that I am stupid. Yes. I know. No news there. Somebody — I don’t remember who, one friend or the other — bought some wrapped caramels from a shop in downtown Normal, and gave me one, which I proceeded to NEVER EAT (because caramels make my throat itch) and then mindlessly threw into the open storage-space under my night-stand along with a bunch of other crap that didn’t receive a second thought. After a few nights or so of dealing with mouse-scurrying sounds, I cleaned the BEJESUS out of my room in an effort to locate any clues as to mouse whereabouts and discovered the caramel half-eaten, with little bits of wrapper pieces all over the place. Score.
Long story short, the more things I did to eliminate rustling noises in my room or places for the beasts to hide, the louder the noises became and the more absurd mouse activity became. My room is pretty ridiculously clean at this point, with nothing on the floor except for my waste-paper basket and the giant-ass cardboard box in which my Nikon D7000 was sent to me, and still I hear things bump and scrape and shift in the night. One morning I woke to find some of the contents of my waste-paper basket littering the floor around the basket. WHY?
I’ve given up former warm-and-fuzzy feelings of pity for the mice. I want them dead. SO dead. Traps have been steadily increasing in number over the past week. It went from two regular traps to those plus two sticky traps (which I swore I would never use when this all started, because I figured that the mice at least deserved a quick and decent end. CRAZY TALK, THAT WAS). And then I want to reclaim actual nights of sleep.
And what a reminder about sleep this is. It’s become plain as freaking DAY how my mental well-being is tied to the amount of sleep I achieve over a period of time. I cannot function without consistent, healthy sleeping hours. CANNOT. Sure, a couple nights at a time of little-to-no-sleep, doable! Exciting, in fact. But when a week, two weeks go by and I am consistently sleeping less than 6 hours a night, things turn ugly. I become crotchety, super-emotional and hyper-sensitive to just about everything. I’ve noticed, especially this time around, that my slight OCD tendencies have become unhealthily exacerbated. When things are out of order, instead of fixing them and not thinking much of it I get REALLY frustrated about the fact that things are out of order and it contributes to the cantankerous mood and behavior. And of course, in a true Talia fashion, I become super-aware of my crotchety-horrible-human-being-ness to the degree that I then become paranoid that everyone hates me from this crappy human being I’ve become. What a lovely icing on this cake of pain!
I hypothesize that all college room-mate experiences that I deemed “not awesome” ultimately had to do with me being chronically sleep-deprived. It makes sense, as I remember very specific long periods of crappy sleep in each of these situations. It’s really too bad — I feel bad for anybody who has to put up with my crazy sleep-deprived bullshit.
So truly. I have to kill these mice DEAD. For the sake of my poor family, and my friends who I might not ever see again unless I resume sleeping and cease to act like a hermity basketcase. Also so that I stop hearing phantom squeaking and rustling everywhere I go (I’m jumpy enough as it is). Next step, if traps don’t work, is to point my huge-ass Peavy amp at the floor at a ridiculous volume and LET LOOSE.
Brought to you by extreme lack-of-sleeps.