Day Two

My name is Nick, and I have a mouse in my house.
Not only is it something I readily admit and accept, but something I can't stop thinking about.
Imagine the deep and profound discomfort that comes from having a stranger in your house you didn't invite in, but is simply trespassing. You don't know how they got in, where they've been, or what they've touched. They are leaving poo everywhere. Then imagine while you know they are in your house when you aren't there, but more disturbingly, when you are, and then imagine what it would be like if you don't know where it is, and can't get them out. It would be a terrifying and deeply discomforting. Now divide that by about two hundred. That's what it is like having a mouse in your house. You can't relax properly. You know it's there, but you can't get rid of it.
My mouse is behind my fridge. And using a cardboard box my new guitar came in, I have blocked it in, as pictured.


I have also blocked off the hallway as a safety measure, with the other side of the box, as pictured.



Not only that, but I have closed every door in my house, after calculating a mouse probably couldn't fit under the crack in my door.
But that's more than just an inconvenience and reminder of the presence of the mouse, as if I need a reminder. I normally keep my doors open. The inside doors, not the ones leading to the outside world. And I haven't adjusted to the change yet. Not even close to adjusting. As a result I have walked into two closed doors today, despite it being in broad daylight. Instinctive memory compels me not to look at door entrances in my house before I walk through them. And it's not like I had my hand out to break the impact. No, the first sense I've had of the door being closed is the pain felt in my face. It's horrible having the first sensory identification of something being the nerves in your nose, from walking into it.
Stupid door. Stupid mouse.