Each evening, while lying in bed, I ask myself a question about life. It usually involves the state of the world and my purpose in it, why I haven't purchased toilet paper in over three weeks, or how guilty I should feel after eating seven chocolate chip cookies in a row.
Last night, I wondered all of those things and something a little ... different:
"On a scale of 1 to 10, what is the appropriate freak-out factor for someone who has just discovered rat poop in their bed?"
This, unfortunately, was not a hypothetical question ....
Life is good (and gross) in the ghetto.