There is a dead mouse. On the floor. Of my kitchen. In my cottage. In the woods.

When did I become such a little girl? Or have I always been?

Maybe that’s not fair. Most of the girls I know seem to have lived more than I. Perhaps because in today’s world they have to…

Yet, I still don’t want to touch it. To take care of it.

I used to know things. Now it’s the Google that knows things. Should I put it in the trash? Throw it outdoors for the local wildlife to snack on? Flush it? (Probably not flush it).

Why is this even a thing? Why does a small dead animal create such anxiety? I want it gone—yet without looking at it. Or touching it. Or salvaging the trap that it’s caught in.

As a child, I used to be mesmerized by dead things. Wandering through the woods, I’d occasionally find a creature who had met it’s end.

An end as natural as the beginning. The middle.

I’d stare for minutes. Maybe hours.

I was never squeamish in biology class, either. Now I wonder what happened? And how do vegans get through biology?

Anyway, I should take care of this unfortunate creature. Whatever it takes to build up to it.

A friend once said the stoics would simply decide what they’d like on their shit sandwich. Each day.

We all have things to do. Things we want to do. Things we’d rather not. Obligations and responsibilities. It’s probably best not to think. At all. And just do it.

And here I am… writing about what I have to do—while delaying it.

Another recurring theme in my life. How interesting. Do we ever really grow? Evolve? Or is our past behavior truly the best predictor of future behavior?

Okay, I’ve put it off long enough… shit sandwich? Let’s go.