And Most of All, Little Timothy Was Afraid of Pedophiles

I am afraid of adults.1

Yes, that I am.2

Although it becomes increasingly hard to tell what constitutes a person an adult these days, since I, myself, am now legally considered an adult, I can still honestly say that I am afraid of adults.3

Sometimes I blame it on the sweaters.4

There's something utterly filthy about mothers, that I cannot even begin to explain.  It might have something to do with the way they smear lipstick all over their faces in the morning and spend hours curling the thinning blades of your eyes and then crusting layer after layer after layer of color from tiny watercolour kits over the folds of your pupils.  It might have something to do with the trunk full of eyecreams that they keep under their powder table drawers, packaged, all sparkling and bright with plastic, to smooth out the crows feet gathering on their temples.5

Or it might just be how they always make too many blueberry muffins.6

But mostly, it's how they think you're too young, too stupid, and too small to do anything on your own, though they'll never admit to thinking it.  But it's how they look you in the eye and say:7

My.8

So young and so.9

Whatever.10

Like how they say it like you need a handicap.11

And I look them in the eye and would like to say:12

Ma'am.  Keep it.13

And you'd say:14

Oh my.  Such manners.15

Though you were confused.16

And then I'd say, eyes poking ditches in your irises:17

Keep your fucking handicap.18

Or maybe.19

Like I said.  20

It's because of the sweaters.21