The Return of Mr. BoJangles.

I am the poster child for someone who should probably be medicated...either that or I just have extremely bad karma. I haven't decided yet.
Alone. That one word means so much to me right now. I feel alone. I fear alone. I see people on the streets alone, and wonder if that will be me in fifteen, twenty or forty years. I wonder if I will have someone to come home to, someone to cook for, someone to hug me, or someone to sit around and say nothing with.
Last night I was faced with an issue I thought I had dealt with. Mr. BoJangles reared his ugly face via my horrible discovery of his feces on my linen shelf (which sits four feet off of the ground), on my high hallway closets, the floors of both closets, the floor of MY closet, the shelf of MY closet....You get the picture. I'm convinced that my SECOND STORY apartment is infested. The odd thing about this whole ordeal is there are no signs of Mr. BoJangles in the kitchen.
For those of you that personally know me, you know I'm not a neat freak...To my defense, I don't leave food around my house, more particularly in my closets.
Dealing with something like this is such a damn headache. Especially when you are alone in the matter. I stayed up until almost 2am de-cluttering my floors and clearing out areas of my closets.
Did I mention that I have had traps laid out since the last time Mr. BoJangles showed himself to me? Peanut butter baited traps. Talk about a sneaky asshole of a mouse. The least he could do was get himself trapped BEFORE shatting all over my closets, sheets, shoes, carpeting and life.
Instead of freaking out and leaning on someone (aka, the guy downstairs), I decided I could handle myself. I prepared myself for just about every dropping that was flung my way. I looked in boxes and behind boxes without shaking or fear. But damn, what I wouldn't have given for my (non-existent) husband to be by my side.
I have been told since the day I found out I was preggo with little man that I should just ask if I needed help. I think people just say that to make themselves feel better about life. I have made attempts to ask people for help, and, if I can get them to actually answer my phone call, they usually politely decline my request. This morning, I attempted to reach out to my mother. Her response to me telling her that I couldn't conquer the enormous task of defeating Mr. BoJangles alone, while watching a 2yo, was saying "You need to buck up!" All I wanted to shout at her was "FUCK YOU!" but I refrained. I did, however, snap back at her saying that I wasn't telling her this to receive tough love from her. Tough love is and was the last thing I needed at this particular moment in my life. I needed a someone I could lean on. I needed my mom. Instead, I must have accidentally dialed the number of the lady who thinks it's too difficult to dog sit a 10 month old puppy AND hang out with her grandson who happens to LOVE dogs at the same time, and makes it a weekly habit of getting drunk to the point of slurring and blacking out on a weekly basis. (wow...I'm on a roll right now!)
I also have notified the lovely management company of my apartment. I was trying to maintain a certain level of sanity while leaving them a voicemail this morning, and in doing so, forgot to leave a return phone number. Since I knew I wouldn't be able to count on them to look my number up in their database, I made a follow up all around the lunch hour. The lady I spoke with was ridiculous. I almost feel like she was attempting to blame ME for the fact that my apartment building was infested with Mr. BoJangles. That didn't bode well with me, but I managed to bite my tongue while silently telling myself "what goes around comes around you nasty whore." When I asked her if I would get reimbursed for picking up traps of my own, she acted like I had just asked her to solve a nuclear physicist equation. She then reiterated that the on site maintenance dude would be in my apartment and would be setting more traps....I swear, if he puts more of the stupid traps that DID NOT WORK in my apartment so help me god my head might just explode.
My emotions came to a roaring head at about 8:45 this morning. I had been sitting at work trying to plot out my next move in this situation, and then came the tears. My soul really really really wanted to start ugly crying. It was begging me to release all of my nasty frustrations...but I just couldn't do it. Instead of the full on ugly cry, about a dozen or so tears streamed down my face. Nobody knew it happened, except for me, now you, and the paper towel I used in a horrible attempt to prevent myself from looking like a raccoon. (Note to self: if I ever start ugly crying in public again, make way to a bathroom to double check I don't have mascara around my ENTIRE EYE...thanks!)
So much for a nice weekend. So much for a girls night out. So much for sleep. So much for keeping makeup on my face in an orderly fashion. Kiss my ass Mr. BoJangles.