Is it a crime if I blow up my kitchen slightly on purpose?

I like to think of myself as an earth friendly kind of girl. I don't dye my hair, I save clothes from one child to the next, my thermostat is set at sixty downstairs during the day, fifty at night, and upstairs stays completely off till bed time.




These things are not simply because I'm cheap.

I promise. Well, not completely because I'm cheap. We recycle. We freecycle. We do our part to keep our trash put out minimal. I try not to use harmful chemicals. I'm a big fan of vinegar and Burt's bees-not together of course.

I swear to God, I'm going to drop an atom bomb on my kitchen.

It's inhabited by strange, stretchy, acrobatic mice. The little bastards are effing cute as hell. And gross. And... scampery. Yes. I'm aware that's not a word. But it should be. It should be a word to describe the little monsters that appear to be performing circus acrobatics on their trek to the Land Behind My Stove.

That's MY STOVE. You. Little. Bastards.

I swear, I honestly swear, I'm so freaking serious, I will buy poison if I see one more. One more cute, fuzzy, icky, stretchy, gotta-be-mutated freakish little mouse dude.

I will buy poison, and screw the earth.

Amen.