As I write this, I am breathing in the scent of dead mouse.
He’s somewhere here in our kitchen, lurking behind a cabinet, his twisted, decaying body looming like old lunch meat. It’s odd, how when mice are alive they smell like nothing at all, and when they’re dead they smell like, literally, death. My wife refuses to enter the kitchen. The neighbor’s daughter (a friend of my kids) is afraid to come to the house. I can’t blame her—nasty. Nasty. Nasty.
We’ve been in this home for more than eight years, and, well, owning a home sucks. There’s always a dead mouse, a broken window, a leaking basement, a rotted piece of wood. When people ask me (which they never do) whether it’s worth buying a place, I always say the same thing: “Uh … no fucking way.”
I mean it. Rent. Borrow. Sleep on a couch. But don’t—do not—own a house.