Relocation, Relocation, Relocation

Two weeks today, we move to the new flat.

I’m so excited.

Obviously I’m not excited about moving just because of the three mice in this flat in the last fortnight, and the 7 or 8 in the last six months (3! 7! Or 8! For fuck’s sake! What the fuck? I fucking clean thoroughly, I clean all the cunting time, why do they fucking do this to me? Fucking fuckers! I mean… Sorry, sorry, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned the mice.

I’ve sort of made a deal with myself not to talk about the mice in public, it’s just got so fucking dull, for me, for everyone else… And then there’s the fact that it make me think about it all the more. And I’m alright until I think about the mice. The fucking mice. I mean what the fuck? Why can’t they just ALL DIE, or just ALL piss off, or something. And why ME? And why MY HOUSE? And… oh piss, I’m talking about the mice again. I’m going to stop this post and start over. Start again.

I’m going to go away, and then come back. Just like the mice. Fucking mice. I tell you, if I came back as a mouse, I would just DIE, because that would be the decent thing to do, and, oh titwank, sorry…)