If I have one superpower in this world, it is undoing the tiny evil that has permeated the fabric of proper society.

Please understand, if I am at your place of residence and I notice you have committed this particular abomination, I am morally obligated to take action.

It must be done. I have no choice but to neutralize this threat to humanity.

I must flip your toilet paper roll back to its proper position.

Never under. Always over.

My work here is done.

I keep thinking of ways to kill children. It didn't really start until I had my own.

Suddenly, there I was, thinking, Look at this--small enough for him to put it into his little innocent mouth while no one's looking. He could choke! And, My God, turn the pot handle in toward the hot stove. Little hands could reach up and pull the boiling grease all over her. And, Should I put up some type of fence barrier thing on the railing of the balcony? They'll climb it. Of course they will, and one will push the other, and one would start to fall, and he would grab at her on the way down, and they both would fall to their little senseless deaths.

Once you have children, you begin to realize the worst possible thing that could befall a parent in this life. You're keen to inspect the floors. You smell for trouble. Your imagination begins to construct entire scripts in which the young, feckless, and clueless come up against the laws of physics, which are unyielding, and these children will get severely injured or die.

It's terrible, this monster I've become. Every object is scrutinized for the perfect tracheal diameter. Every sharp object is seen as something a child could run with. Little bodies don't like extra holes, unless it's a tube put in for ear infections. And it is exhausting to consider all of the things that could put out an eye. I don't know them all, but I think of new ones every day.

I sand without eye protection, but the little shitling better not even be in the same room.

Just how well do we trust that old dog of ours? Is cat scratch fever really a thing? Let them play outside--really? Are you out of your fucking mind! Is that just some rash or the harbinger of Neisseria meningitis? Another cold--that's two this year--leukemia? diabetes? How do I know this liquid Tylenol hasn't been...yea, that's right...tampered with?

When I'm stopped in traffic under an overpass, I back up a couple of inches so the falling girder will crush me instead of the kids in the back. What's in that aromatherapy machine I smell in Grandma's machine? Eucalyptus? Peppermint? Wintergreen? That stuff can kill them, for God's sake!

Are those vitamins really necessary? What about hypervitaminoses? Did you even think about that?

Yep, just when I think I know all the weird ways to kill a child, a new one stuns me back into the sobriety of mortality. How do I think of these things? Was I a child-killer in a previous life? Or has evolution given my children this survival advantage?

My kids are grown. They survived. And if I so much as catch any of 'em with a cigarette, I'll kill 'em.

Toxic, yes. Stupid, no.

When I'm at the front of the left turn lane, waiting for the light to turn green, cars coming from the right, turning left, look into their turn as they pass in front of me. I don't know them. They don't know me, but for that rare moment in time, our paths narrowly cross; and there I am, grinning ear to ear, flipping each of them the bird as they continue on their commute. I just enjoy their facial reactions. No one can possibly foresee it. It's shocking, invigorating, comical, for them and for me. The thing that upsets me is when they clearly see me, but have no reaction at all. Those are the ones who sadden me. It's as if someone randomly flipping them off while grinning is just par for the course. Those are the dead souls, the downtrodden, the serial killers. I pray for them; and when the light turns green, I remember their faces. All of them.

I just happen to but absolutely perfect in every possible way.

Except...

I secretly love the smell of gasoline

I memorized Genocide by Lil Darkie

I like clouds so much they make me cry

I cry a lot but I don't know why

I get stuck in high places

I love seeing faces

Like I really really like staring at people

It's a little bit creepy but I think they're pretty

Well, maybe not always but they're human and that's pretty cool

I like getting dirty

I get tired at three thirty

but I wake up at seven and I can't fall asleep

so I make a mess in my room or draw on my feet

I talk to myself in the mirrors for hours

It was never my fault it was ours.

I write on my arms, I write on my legs

I burn the butter when making my eggs

I overshare, but I lie

I'm obsessed with guessing the time

And... I would rather walk for hours than do my homework

But all that aside, I've no toxic traits whatsoever, you?

I tend to be too quick to trust. Not just people. I've made accounts for many different writing websites and more because I was too lazy to read the description. That's the reason I found Prose and it hasn't backfired yet.

Emphasis on the yet.

Oh, there is the one part of suddenly having 500 emails a day since I started this habit. I wonder why...

Her voice

shrieked through

their assaulted ear drums

like splintered glass.

She approached

their fear

with her blinding smile;

a wattage in

a class of its own,

matched only by the

impossible frequency

of the decibels

she intoned.

A decorated Navy man

back in the second act

On the stage of the worlds wars

had been spared by his

ancient world without

technology,

for in those

most primitive times,

when no safety rules applied,

he had sacrificed his eardrums

amidst the earsplitting roar of

engines from the bombers he used to fly,

but his near deafness became

his ally,

his secret weapon of defense,

a father of the most

agreeable kind,

smiling through her

soprano whine

and nodding along

to the tales of woe

she wove;

for he lived in ignorant bliss

of the horrific voice

his daughter possessed.

Her coworkers cower in horror

as her racous laughter

Peels the paint

as she rounds the corner,

and when she confides

to her lover

that she'd always dreamed

Of singing the blues

In that smoky jazz bar

On the corner,

he pleaded with intensity,

as he uttered,

Oh my darling,

Isn't there something you'd

love to do better?

If she ever gets lost

You can find her

Just listen for the yips

Of wailing dogs,

And follow the voice

that is the envy of

ambulance sirens.