There are mice.
In my office.
Not a mouse.
Not a few.
Not a family.
Like a whole freaking colony.
In New York, subway rats are a matter of everyday routine and you can't let the occasional cockroach drive you crazy. I don't live on (relatively pristine, I would assume) Park Avenue. I live in the East Village. My old apartment had holes in the floor -- convenient for sweeping (negates the need for a dustbin) but not so good for keeping rascally rodents out. I am used to this.
(Note: I wouldn't actually handle the darn things. But at least I stopped freaking out whenever I heard a trap snap. I'd just calmly take necessary provisions -- a diet coke, my pack of cigs, the latest People Magazine -- and camp out on the stoop until my roommate got home).
But this is an office.
And it is disgusting.
This might be my breaking point.
Glass-half-full moment of the week: Yes, it's disgusting my office space is being overrun by vermin, but at least it's a catalyst moving me one step closer to the door.
Bought one ticket.
Two whole freaking dollars. You think that's enough to quit my job?