I'm a murderer.
I killed a mouse with my bare hands Thursday night, put it in a Shakespeare's cup and threw its seizing body out the front door. I didn't feel the least bit guilty--at the time--because:
1) It was loud and slow. Being Darwin's handmaiden is an ugly job, but someone has to do it. I am just Jules striking "down upon thee great vengeance and furious anger".
2) While I am far from being a neat housekeeper (all those threats of cleanliness imbuing godliness), a mouse crapping in my house was too much of an affront to my pride.
I had initially toyed with the idea of buying a live trap, but I guess this is the last nail in the coffin of my compassionate conservatism.
Where does this bloodlust originate? I may have inherited it:
When I was home one weekend, my father beat an armadillo (that had been eating the salad greens from the garden) to death with a baseball bat in our backyard while my horrified sisters and I watched. It bounced at least 2 feet off the ground.
Man of action indeed!