The Two-ply Vigilante
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.
A Monster’s Mind: I Keep Thinking of Ways to Kill Children
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.
How to Read People
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.
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?
Too quick to trust
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...
Minnie Mouse on Crack
their assaulted ear drums
like splintered glass.
with her blinding smile;
a wattage in
a class of its own,
matched only by the
of the decibels
A decorated Navy man
back in the second act
On the stage of the worlds wars
had been spared by his
ancient world without
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 secret weapon of defense,
a father of the most
smiling through her
and nodding along
to the tales of woe
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