My life is becoming a fucked up parody of every lame as shit, bitter break up I’ve ever experienced. Today’s episode brings us “Getting my shit.”

Yup, as with any break up I had the ritualistic collecting of personal belongings left behind, right down to the obligatory box of tampons. Yeah baby, no fucking way I want my ‘pons up inside another chick. No fucking way; gotta get that shit back. I even dicked around about a stereo I don’t need but is mine nonetheless.

So, yeah, if I could have lived up to “Amplifier” by the dBs, I guess I would have. Although, come to think about it, I’m more like Danny in that song. Guess it is truly good I am certifiably non-psycho, lest I off the wonderfulness that I am in my current post-break up despair.

By the way, if I lived by signs and portents, I’d be nuts by now, as I realized the second I crossed the street for my belonging collecting.

And in another bit of voodoo, the other night at circa 3 a.m., I was reading a magazine article on how Mugabe has fucked Zimbabwe in 11 thousand different assholilc for 23 years’ running kind of democratically elected dictator way, a topic near and dear to the ex. During that perusal, I caught the first peripheral glance of the fuzzy gray body with which I’m cohabitating. Yeah, I finally saw the mouse. And, just like the ex, he’s been erratic, unreliable and unpredictable. I thought I was done with him once I cleaned up the droppings, stored all possible food in the ‘fridge, set some traps and didn’t see any more signs of him. The mouse and I had veritably had the last phone conversation in which all energy that prompted togetherness is once and for all dissipated. But, just like with that ex, he came back and surprised me the moment I was feeling securely rid of him.

By the way, in Zimbabwe and other parts of southern Africa fire-roasted mice are considered mighty tasty. You can look it up.