After 24 hours of melodramatically wondering where that thing came from (the 'poem,' not the squirrel), boring several friends with exhaustive speculation, and reading it a million times--I guess I'll say that though I'll never know for sure, signs point to me having written it. These signs include the giant rat, the name Henry, the fact that it is bad, and its overwhelming sentimentality.
Enough about that.
The squirrel, for those of you who are interested, got into that little rotting cage of wood because our old, 'sick' (read: negligent! Am I a bitch, or what?) landlord ripped our roof/ceiling apart about three weeks ago and hasn't been back to fix it since. It was ok for about a day, and then all this rubble started falling from the ceiling. Now I know that it's because creatures have been running around above my head. Awesome.
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