My Mother Doesn’t Think I’m Evil

When I first broke the subject to my mother about my intention to start up a blog for my dark side, she thought I was joking.

And this was before she saw the picture of the evil pigeon, so I didn’t even know what to tell her.

I expect mothers are always the last to accept the fact that their little darlings are raging psychopaths. It’s probably two parts unconditional love, one part straight-up denial.

It’s not like my dear mama and I haven’t discussed my world takeover before. It’s come up plenty of times — usually after somebody, somewhere, has done something infuriatingly stupid, and I’m all, “That’s it. When I come into power, that’s* a capital offense.”

*”That” probably being something like refusing to wash your hands after using the restroom or an unapologetic disregard for the true meaning of “literally”. Zero tolerance, people. ZERO.

Mother says I would come to regret such a harsh legal system. She seems to think I’m too emotionally unstable to effectively oversee such a regime. Like all the best (worst?) villains aren’t out of their ever-lovin’hatin’ minds! You think all the maniacal laughter we do is because we find our acts of cruelty amusing? Heavens, no, we’re just deranged. Crazy people laugh. It’s one of our tells.**

**Signs of insanity also including, but not limited to, bizarre facial tics, rocking ourselves, and shouting for somebody to STOP THAT INCESSANT SOUND THAT NO ONE ELSE CAN HEAR***!

***Or the sound of snoring. I cannot deal with snoring. Punishable by exile, at least at night.

Like all good mothers, I suppose mine worries about me. Worries that I’d sooner or later start to feel bad about being, y’know, bad.

That’s just a risk you all are going to have to take.