My mom and I were planning my grad party, and she was looking through old pictures. She pulled out this picture of me when I was maybe three, with my arm around another three-year-old I didn’t know.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“A little girl you met at daycare,” she said, wincing. “Ten seconds after this picture was taken, you punched her in the face.”
I don’t remember this at all, but I’m going to go ahead and assume she deserved it. Or I was just a budding serial killer whose violent path was thankfully diverted at an early age.