Butterfly Wings

I hate taking young children with small bladders to the shops.
I hate public/shopping centre toilets.
Actually, I hate what people leave on, or under, the toilet seat, and can’t be bothered cleaning up after themselves.
I hate being the one who notices what they’ve left behind.
I hate wondering if the small child touched it, even if I’m pretty sure he didn’t.
I hate that washing his hands thoroughly still doesn’t seem enough.
I hate feeling like he thinks I’m a freak for being paranoid.
I hate worrying about him adopting, or adapting to, my paranoia.
I hate thinking about it for the rest of the day.
I hate mentally composing a post about it all the way home.
I hate knowing that, if/when DH reads this, I’ll be berated for using the word “hate”.
I hate OCD.
I hate hate.

That is all.