Redheads

Everything they say about redheads is true. 

I know what you're thinking. I must be one of those rotten people full of stereotypes; quick to judge; hateful; bitter. 

I'm really not. 

Well, bitter perhaps, but not the rest. 

But back to redheads.

I have one. He's that boy in the picture with the spark of evil in his left eyeball. Can you see it? 

It's that spark that makes him insist he's not growing up–he's growing down. He must only have the little cups, not the big ones. He can only wear the "softie" pants (pajamas) at all times. You know, because the others are all too small/belong to his brothers/too tight/too dirty. He must have his bedroom light on during naps and at night. He must have three, and exactly three stuffed animals to sleep with, and his books under the covers–not on top. He must take Matchbox cars to pick up his brother from school. WHICH I MUST CARRY IN MY POCKET. 

There's the possibility my psychoses have worn off on him, and it's not the hair at all. I don't think so though. I mean, you can see that spark, right?