When I returned home to my apartment on Monday night, after an utterly failed attempt at studying for Wednesday's final exam (the final exam that marked the end of my second year of medical school), I made myself uncomfortable on my notoriously uncomfortable couch, the bane of my existence, but my perpetual best friend and reliable scapegoat. As it turned out, my scapegoat proved to be not the only wildlife in the room: from the corner of my eye, a flash of motion. A quick turn of the neck, and my eyes followed to behold a mouse in its unsure, timid flight across the carpet, stopping and going without apparent purpose. I rose to my feet, the intention to kill apparent in my ascension, and the mouse fled, but met a dead-end (oh, if only it had truly been a dead end!) in an already-worn--but I hesitate to say dirty--pair of boxers left on the floor days before. On the boxers was a repeating pattern consisting of the onomatopoeia "Pow!" printed inside a small cartoon explosion, underneath which the mouse was momentarily trapped, trying this way and that way to escape its sudden imprisonment. The stage was perfectly set. A boot-laden foot raised then lowered with gusto on top of the tiny animal was the only action required to find the equilibrium of the moment. The blood of the mouse adding a livelier shade of red to the cartoon explosion as it slowly made itself visible between the fibers of the "Pow!" was all that was needed to complete the scene. The mouse's eyes would close, followed shortly by my own as I went to bed, like two curtains ushering in the conclusion of darkness.
But the boot-laden foot was not raised nor lowered, and the mouse escaped, proving my foresight to be in vain. The delay! I delayed! Why? Well, the boxers had been predominantly white, save for the pattern, and how could I possibly wear previously-bloodied boxers?
So for now, disequilibrium, as I wait for the mouse trap to announce the end with a different onomatopoeia: "Snap!"