Our fears often come from classical conditioning. Something terrible happens with a thing and we associate terror with that thing. In other words, a fat dead mouse pops up in your oven and you develop a fear of rodents (and ovens).
A boy’s formative years are supposed to be spent helping old ladies across the road and kissing girls (which is ironic, really, because the first girl I ever kissed looked like the old lady across the road).
We shouldn’t be finding bloated, decomposing mice in the cooking oil.
I blame my mother. First, she had
