When I was a kid, I was wandering around outside (remember that?) and I saw a dog lying down in the grass. When I approached it, I realized the dog wasn’t moving. Upon turning it over, not only was it exceptionally dead, but it was being eaten by a bunch of rats.

To this day I’m not sure if this actually happened. It’s either such an awful memory I managed to block out the details or I’ve been lying about it so long that I can’t remember if it’s true. Either way, I’m terrified.

According to the internet, the most common fears are public speaking, snakes, and heights. Not me. I’m afraid of mice. Rats, too. Not hamsters, though. I guess it’s the whippy tails. Hamsters are cute and I admire their dedication to their exercise regimen.

Public speaking has never been an issue for me. I’m not afraid of heights — I’m afraid of falling off high structures, but they’re fairly easy to avoid. I don’t think I’ve seen a snake in person. If I did, I think I’d be cool with it. I’d be afraid of a snake if you told me it was actually a tail attached to an invisible mouse.

If you live downtown in St. John’s, I assure you: you have more roommates than you think. While they’ll sleep in places that you’d never fit in anyway, they don’t contribute much to utilities and they shit on your floor.

Every night when I went to sleep I could hear mice in the walls. Coincidentally, my dog Lou started having “Old Hag” level nightmares. It was hilarious. She would run in her sleep and make panting noises like she was fighting Joseph Gordon-Levitt on a hotel room ceiling.

In December, I opened my cupboard to get some oatmeal and found a dead mouse. Some people see a dead mouse and don’t panic. Some people grab some glow sticks and MDMA. Not me. I ran away. Literally. I ran across the room and screamed so loud I threw up on my own feet. My roommate calmly threw it away. No big deal, apparently

Two weeks later, my dog found another mouse under the oven. I ran away again. My girlfriend dealt with it while I hid in the basement. Then she opened a jar of mayo for me and I started my period.

The last straw: one died in the wall next to my bed. You can’t mistake the smell of an animal dying. It smelled like two wet dogs having sex in Subway (probably).

I was very angry, which is a strange reaction to something you shared a house with dying.

“Have you seen Desmond?”

“No, I think he died in the wall.”

“Ugh, he smells like shit!”

We moved out. Apparently the mice had a longer lease than us. I wish the best of luck to the new tenants. The dead mouse may not smell anymore, but there’s still Ghosts and Stuff.

Lifted from Matt’s website: http://www.mattwrightcomedy.com/