cease Soma "Sometimes I just wish I had never been born," I told her. "I just wish anyone understood how much I don't want to exist and could fix it." Sometimes I just stare at it in despair. The sort of response you might have after the sixth day in a row of having to remove a moose from your living room. Is six the reasonable point at when you might despair? Once it got past sixty I just stopped counting. Five years of staring over the counter at this beast, as I make my morning coffee. I never invited that fucking moose in, to clarify. It was there when I moved in. I went to animal experts who taught me how to handle mooses (or meeses?) and I drove it out. I locked the door. I put up moose-away. I hired someone to remove it an they couldn't. The home inspector says that some houses just have a hard time with moose intrusions. You wonder if that's really true, because it just feels so ridiculous. You don't know anyone else with a moose. Imagine it — you hesitantly creeping around the creature's mass. You're so tired. You just woke up and were looking forward to a day of rest, your weekend. You spent all last week taking every single action necessary all day, every day, to make the moose go away. You just want to make your coffee. The water boils. The brew deepens. You can't believe it's fucking back again. And so soon. Always too soon it feels like. You stir the spoon – a clink is all it takes – and the creature starts. You are a mess, a wreck, you are dashed and bashed and ruined. There's a scream, a cry, is it the moose or is it I? My house wasn't supposed to have a moose in it. It was supposed to just be a house. It was supposed to keep me safe. I just want to live in my peace and not pieces. "Everyone has a hard time, you just have to keep going," she says. When the moose shows up, I expect death. I'm trapped with it, after all. And I'm only one person, rather small. But still I'm here, battered and broken and bloody day after day, moose after fucking moose. 240507 what's it to you? who go blather from