(Full disclosure: I spent far too much time trying to fit a dead mouse into a round hole by asking people what kind of metaphor these dead mousies could represent. Retroactively deep doesn’t work, kids.)
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my comedy writing classes, it’s this: the broader the topic, the harder it is to write something. Oddly specific gets the juices flowing. In my quest to stuff these dead mice into a metaphor for my life, I meta-realized just now writing this that these dead meeses represent FAR TOO MANY THINGS, which is why I was struggling to find just one metaphor. THEY ARE ALL.
Fuck the turtles. It’s dead mice all the way down, kiddos.
Relationships. Broken dreams. Youth. Ex-boyfriends. My failed modeling career. Ideas I’ve thought of that were fucking genius but ultimately died in the fangs of reality because their wee spines were too flimsy and collapsed due to lack of support/follow-through/crippling fear/whatever. The constant underlying panic knowing I’ll die alone. All of it.
So I am not going to try to couch posting macabre photos I inexplicably took of my cat’s prey into some deep, metaphorical post. I’m not going to pretend to be pithy and deep, because I’m currently in the throes of Shark Week and ain’t no one is getting anything clever done for the next 4 days. Instead, I’m laying it all out there and showing everyone what kind of sick, gallows-humor kinda gal I really am.