Tag Archives: die

On dealing with mice…

23 Sep

You guys don’t understand: I can’t just get a cat. I don’t do cats, Tori doesn’t do cats, and my building only allows one pet per unit. I thought about getting a parrot and a week later they put up a sign saying that no “exotic” pets are allowed. Would a parrot be considered “exotic?”  When I was little, we had a pet parrot in Brasil. He just flew to our mango tree one day and we fed him… He decided to stick around. The little bastard would curl his head down as we petted his neck, then all of a sudden raise it back up, pecking our fingers  really hard. Fucking bipolar parrot just flew away forever one day.

Parrots live absurdly long lives and I think that’s awesome. I’d love to be 50 years old, living with the parrot I got when I was 20-something. I’d teach it useful words such as “porra,” “foda-se,” “alô?” and “tchau!” I might even have it record my voicemail message.

But I can’t have a parrot. That’s OK, though, because I really love where I live. I lived in the area five years ago but had to move out because I became temporarily unemployed and nearly hopeless. And five years later, I’m back. I fucking love Ringer Park. It’s so very close to me that I walk my dog there every morning and evening. I let her off leash and she rolls around in dirt, squeaking like a broken toy, big smile on her face. We walk around the dirty panties, the queen-sized mattress, the half-eaten $5 Market Basket lobster, torn T-shirts, used tampons, empty fireworks cartons, and broken glass, and head to the open grassy area atop a hill, where I can stare at little children in the playground. The boys are fun to watch; they are restless; throwing shit at each other, running, climbing on shit, jumping from shit. The girls, on the hill ahead of Tori and me, stand around, playing with their hair, raising their hands to ask the game coordinator questions. While Tori eats grass, or rolls around on it, or poops.

As I walk back home through the park, I get whistled at by guys playing basketball, say ‘hi’ to an elderly lady keeping company to an even older lady who doesn’t seem able to move, or speak, or maybe even see. They sit there in silence, enjoying the early Fall breeze. Back on the wide sidewalk, Russian grandmas stand around, gossiping about other Russian grandmas’ children, some locals congregate in front of the package store, and the T attempts to deafen me once again with its screechiness. I really like my neighborhood. I really like hopping on the T and coming to this bookstore/coffee shop, sitting at the bar, having cup after cup of coffee, and abundant amounts of melted Havarti and avocado on a deliciously baked, perfectly toasted, thick slice of rye bread. And some chips. And more coffee. And I sit here and look at people around me. I am, of course, quite content in my current state; a result of learning how to roll my own cigarettes. Well, I didn’t so much learn how to do it, as I bought an easy roller and it does the work for me. But, you know, the end result is the same.

So that’s it. I love where I live, I don’t want to move, and I’d sooner chop off my left middle finger than get rid of Tori, so no cats for me. But I am determined to conquer the motherfucking mice. Every day I’ve forced myself to google images for “dead rat” and have written a letter to distribute to building residents, urging them to have their individual units exterminated, or face the consequences of a mice infestation this winter, as the creatures use our cabinets and walls as conjugal rooms. I will win. The mice will die.


Jesus fucking hates me this month

19 Sep

When I was little – 5 or 6 – I got small rubber snakes to throw on my mom while she was asleep. I’d seen her wince a couple of times, and look away from the television when the image of a snake came on. My dad said she had a ‘phobia’ of snakes; that they really frightened her. So I got rubber ones, put them on her chest while she napped, and then called out her name, to wake her up.

When she saw them, she screeched, waving her arms 3 or 4 times, then jumped up and away from the bed. I laughed for a while, until my father came into the room and realized what had happened. I think they spanked me a little, and then explained how frightened my mother was of them, and how cruel what I’d done was. I got the picture and never pulled a similar prank – though I did always love catching her reaction when she caught sight of snakes.

A year or two later, I stood in the living room, chatting on the phone with an aunt who lived in the United States (little Ju here was still living in the motherland). While mid-sentence, I saw a mouse run from a corner of the living room, over my right foot,  to the other end of the room, underneath a piece of furniture. I freaked the fuck out. I screamed, and jumped up and down, waving my little arms, dropping the receiver and hanging up on my aunt. My mother ran to the living room, and I told her a mouse had run over my foot and was now hiding in the room. She told me to calm down and assured me my father would get rid of it. I went to bed imagining mice would take over my bedroom while I slept, running over my legs and hair. A few months later, my dog would chase, catch, and mutilate a massive motherfucking rat she found in our backyard. I watched her do it, and saw the vile fucking creature being shaken as she bit into its hind legs. I screamed, half in support of her bravery, half in horror. I was disgusted and extremely proud.

I can’t remember when it started exactly, but I developed a real phobia of mice. Walking through Boston’s Back Bay alleys is a no-no for me; there are mice running from one dumpster to another, crossing the street ahead of and behind you. I did it once, and saw seven of the revolting motherfuckers; I ran to the end of the street and then started crying. I was with friends, and extremely embarrassed as we were all just walking to a club, but my knees started shaking and I was sobbing.

Dressed in PJs, I was watching TV in the living room of the first apartment I had, by myself,  when I saw a mouse come into the living room, slowly, along the wall. I screamed, put on my flipflops, grabbed my keys, cell phone, and dog, and ran to my car. I called my father, crying, who told me to grow up and go back home. I then called my best friend, crying, and begged him to let me sleep over. The next day I went back home, cleaned the place, set up mousetraps, and mostly hung out only in the bedroom with the door closed. My landlord initially suggested I use some poison pellets, but they didn’t solve the problem. The traps kept trapping more fuckers, and I found droppings in the kitchen every day. Eventually I threatened to file a report against him with the Dept. of Public Health, and also refused to pay rent until he had a proper job done by exterminators, which he did. It took a month and many nightmares of mice with severed spines, but I did it. I never saw another fucker for as long as I lived there.

I had mice again in my second apartment. I had just returned home with my best friend, and was about to heat up a sandwich in the toaster, when the little fucker ran from underneath the toaster oven, inches from my hand, jumped to the floor and hid under the fridge. Once again, I freaked the FUCK OUT. I started crying and ran to the bedroom. My friend told me to calm down, but I started getting hysteric. Then he got pissed at me and told me to grow up and stop crying. I cried more. Then I was hyperventilating and had trouble speaking. That made me cry harder because I realized I wasn’t in control of myself. My neck felt tight. My friend got worried and drove me to the hospital. I was still crying, hyperventilating and now my tongue and jaw stiffened. It was hard to breathe. At the emergency room, I’d get my breathing in check for a few seconds, then the crying would resume, which made it difficult to breathe, and the whole fucking thing started over. Eventually my friend got in my face, and coached me through each breath. I followed his lead for a few minutes and then began breathing normally on my own. I stopped crying. I felt normal again – exhausted – but normal. We drove home. All because of my pathetic, senseless, irrational fear and disgust of fucking mice.

This afternoon I was greeted by Tori as I came into the apartment with grocery bags. I put them down to the right of the door, and took a step left, toward the bathroom. There was a dead mouse on the floor. Tori went to it, sniffed it, then came back to me, wagging her tail.

My knees almost gave and I’m pretty sure I started whimpering. I grabbed a plastic bag to serve as a glove and another for disposal, walked toward the thing, bent my knees and closed my eyes, letting my hand find the body. I shoved it in the plastic bag, wrapped it, and threw it out my door. Then I cried a little. Before bringing the bag to the dumpster in the parking lot, I decided to ask a neighbor if she’d ever seen mice at her place.

“Oh yeah. My roommate actually owns our unit and when we first saw it we thought it was because of dog food, so we got it off the floor, but that wasn’t it, cause they came back. She had the place exterminated but all they did was bring some stupid traps and some poison. But then the other day, I was going through a drawer in her room – just a drawer, there wasn’t even any food – and I saw one in there.”

Instead of killing someone, write a blog post!

23 Jun

Welcome to the show. It’s that time of the month, and I am filled with self loathing. It matters not that a cute girl stares back at me in the mirror; I’m still fat and ugly and, given the right combination of drugs, would take immense crotch-wetting pleasure in shaving my head and banging my umbrella on someone’s car window.

Aside from being the most vile looking creature this side of the Mississippi, I’m also stupid and incompetent; the proof is in the eight blog post drafts sitting to the right of the screen, as I type these pathetic words.

It is scientifically proven that to make one feel better about herself, she need only put someone else down. I’ve been running through scenarios in my head that might help brighten my mood, and the recurring one is this: run into the packed J.P. Licks of Newton Centre (full of yappy, rich housewives and their bratty kids) and yank the hair of as many of them as I can before a light goes off in their vapid brains guiding them to try and stop me. I’m not talking about the little pull on a few strands that you do to a friend sitting in front of you in class – I mean grabbing a handful of hair, dragging that hand down to waist level (along with her head), then flicking her nose with the other hand.

I did that once – except instead of flicking the nose, I punched her face repeatedly. It wasn’t my fault.

After theater rehearsal one afternoon, I got on the packed school bus and sat way in the back; it was the only seat left and, of course, was right in front of a pea-brain monstrous Hispanic chick and her big-hoop-earrings-wearing, finger-snapping friends. The whole ride they talked shit about me, pulled my hair, and at one point, one of them took my basketball from my lap. I kept quiet the whole time, ’cause I was alone, these creatures were bred for fighting, and my face was rather pretty. Finally, the Monster Chica and her friends got up to get off at their stop; one of them threw the ball back on my lap and I was relieved at the thought it might all be over. But of course, Monster Chica, the last one to leave, stomped on my foot as she walked away. I lost it. I threw my backpack and basketball down, got  up, and kicked her in the back. She turned around and for a second I almost shat my pants. At least 30lbs heavier and four inches taller, she came at me and all the kids got up, yelling “Fight! Fight!” She began scratching my face. 30 extra pounds, and all she could do was scratch my face and my shoulders. I was pushing her face away with my hands, when I grabbed a hold of her hair with my right hand. I pulled her head down to my waist, and proceeded to punch her temple and cheek with my left hand – four or five times. I brought her head back up and kicked her in the stomach, called her a bitch, and sat back down.

Other than the time I made a girl bleed while sparring in TaeKwonDo, that was my most victorious moment. This massive, scary looking chick was standing in the middle of the bus, shaking, holding her ear with one hand – I guess her earring got caught in her hair as I yanked and held it, and a bit of her ear was ripped. I watched as she got off the bus and stood on the sidewalk, still shaking.

No one. ever fucked. with me. again.

I feel better now.


2 Apr


Welcome. Today is day 1 of April PMSing. I’ve written before about a highly effective coping mechanism, but seeing as I’m at work, self-medicating isn’t an option. What I’ll choose to do instead is share this fucking burden with you, my reader (and subsequently, friend).  AND YOU WILL READ ALL OF IT, YOU HEAR ME? NO SKIPPING PARTS! AND LAUGH AT APPROPRIATE TIMES!

[deep breath]

A girl who’s in tune with her body – as I like to think I am – can generally detect the first symptoms of this recurring, unamusing prank from nature. This particular month my Redcoat visitor (so charming, all of a sudden!) brings a goodie basket of:

Sitting at my desk, fidgeting and worrying about ALL of the tasks I need to accomplish, thus spending my time engaging in none of them isn’t very efficient, is it? Well, that’s what I’m doing. Even better when I remember all of the personal tasks I have to accomplish too. Clean my apartment. Put up a Craigslist ad to help it get rented. Call Directv and ask them kindly to return the $350 they deducted from my account without authorization or good reason. I have to, I have to, I have to, I have to… PLEASE, GOD, LIFT THIS HEAVY BALL OF DUTY-VOMIT OFF MY BACK, I NEED TO BREATHE.

Can I have a hug?
Why? Are you in a bad mood or something?
No, I’m in a good mood, I just need a hug.
Okaaay. Weirdo. [he hugs me]

Irrational Thoughts
Life would be so much easier if I just got married to a really rich guy and could stay home doing NOTHING. I could deal without self-realization, being a waste of oxygen, occasionally debating if I could be classified as the ultimate prostitute, hiding my shame deep into the subconscious with the help of alcohol and drugs for every time I charge the credit card for a pair of stilettos that I think will make me look good and feel better because once someone slips a big fat shiny ring on my finger, I’ll instantly learn how to and enjoy walking strapped to such sadist contraptions. Forget exercising and challenging my faculties and finding a person who respects and appreciates my mind, and thinks of me as an equal, and a life partner with a hot bod.

Oh yea, I already went through that.


It’s very strange, because it isn’t sex that is appealing to me now. It’s just making out and smelling a dude’s scent and being touched. But not sex itself, necessarily (though I could be persuaded if I were already involved with said dude).  Note it is imperative that he be manly and sweaty, preferably post sports-match or something. It’s not gross, it’s just my hormones. I don’t appreciate your judgment. Oh, you weren’t judging? Sorry, I’m a little defensive.

Emotional Emptiness
Ever been on a really scary roller coaster, or taken ecstasy, or punched a wall/door in anger? These activities can leave you feeling pretty drained afterward, huh? A black hole of emotions where sad and happy, tired and energetic, talkative and anti-social all meet and penetrate one another, forming a blob of nothingness. Yeah, I kind of feel like that. They’re all inside me, yet I can produce nothing. It’s like a sharp, involuntary intake of breath seconds before what you THINK is going to be a massive, super satisfying sneeze and… nothing. It’s like dry humping for forty minutes, then hearing the parents walking down the hall, forcing you to take seats at opposite sides of the bedroom, borderline catatonic, unsure if you’re angry or sad, because your hormones were LIED TO.

At least there’s been no crying. On the contrary, I’m feeling sort of… RAAWWRR! I just wanna go home and take a long walk with the dog, while listening to music and then return to clean the shit out of that apartment!

[Intermission – Just a quickie filled with hate]

12 Mar

Logged on to Facebook and my news feed told me two people posted Lady GaGa’s new music video.

I’m no GaGa fan, but whatever, I don’t hate her either, and I read Beyonce was on this song (baddest bitch ever, that girl) so I hit Play.

Here are some words to describe what I thought of it, so I may go on with my day:

* It fucking sucked

* Stupidest, most nonsensical, trying-way-too-hard piece of crap

* 9.5 wasted minutes of my life. I should’ve closed the office door and gone on PornHub instead – More flesh, less teasing, and I wouldn’t still be thinking about chocolate

* GaGa has a really hot body

* I lost some respect for Beyonce. I understand wanting to “collab” with the “superstar” but this is super beneath you, B

* HAS ANYONE ACTUALLY LISTENED TO THE SONG? IT FUCKING SUCKS. Alex Roda writes better music, I’m certain of this

* You can’t be considered creative and innovative when you’re such a Madonna wanna-be. Not even Madonna is as cool as Madonna anymore. Stop trying. Go away.

* If you think you like this song, you’re wrong. Listen to No Doubt’s “Spiderwebs” instead. If you think you like her outfits and makeup and shitty choreography, you’re wrong again. Watch some Madonna videos circa 1990.

I hate that I even took the time to acknowledge you, GaGa.

Forever Hateful,
Lady Ju, a very angry latina

PS – She used a VIRGIN MOBILE cell phone in the video. I’m sure that’s what she uses in real life. Not a crackberry or iPhone or droid or anything like that…