I concede. I admit defeat. You may have the house. I cannott take your goddamn psychological warfare anymore.
I don’t know what I did to deserve this. Was it the fact that I whistled the “Farmer and the Dell” when I laid those traps? I really did not mean anything by it— I just got carried away after I watched that marathon of The Wire. I should have known that you were really the Omar in our Baltimore.
I thought we might be able to work this out. I bought those humane traps as a sort of truce, but you refused. I thought it would be like a Pixar movie; you and I would become close friends after I caught you and we’d get into all sorts of hijinks. You must have laughed when you saw those. The woman at the store told me that spring-loaded traps were the only way to go and so I relented. I made my deal with God— killing you was necessary and I’d never kill another living soul. I laid those traps with that tantalizing organic peanut butter— how did you refuse? You must have the will power of a Tibetan monk. Dragging the trap to the exact place beneath the couch where I would have to put my hand when I felt around for the remote was pure genius. Bravo.
I honestly do not know how you did it. How do you make my bed covers move ever so slightly as soon as I walk into my room to let me know that you had been walking all over my pillows? How did you ensure that I would find out about my Friend’s dad’s childhood neighbor who contracted hantavirus? Did you somehow know that I am a hypochondriac, or did you just assume that after you saw that menorah on my windowsill a few months ago?
I know when I’m outmatched and I will take this defeat like a man. The house is yours. I will leave the keys on the table in the front hallway next to my white handkerchief.
You have won your guerilla war you devious bastard. I hope you’re happy.
p.s. You should know the door sticks a little bit when it’s humid out and custodial doesn’t like you to keep anything in the hallway, even shoes.