There is an unrelentless, untrappable, rock throwing, tunnel digging, and completely heartless raccoon living in my ceiling. Every night he waits for Jess to go to bed and then begins his cruel game of fear induced torture. He runs laps above my head, scratches and digs, and even drops tiny pebbles through the flood lights in the dining room until I’m paralyzed with terror. Then he stops. I dial the phone and feel the calm of Boater’s voice. “Oh yes, I’m fine now…I just freaked out for a minute. I’m sure you and Jess are right- there is no way he can get in the house. Ok, then, love you, goodnight.” Click. Suddenly, he’s back: scratching, digging, biting…creating his own jacked-up version of the Shawshank Redemption. I’m barely 34 and a half and I don’t understand the wilderness and I simply can’t handle this type of psychological warfare. Please comment below to offer your love and support or simply become a follower if you’re an excessively lazy person - I will know you’re thinking of me in my time of need.