The kid had lost his, Grover nose, and he was pissed. (Yes, Grover from Sesame Street.) Five years old, he didn't care about much else. He could be a wicked little bitch if he wanted to. Momma's dishes were his victim tonight. He knew what he was doing. He just needed someone else to feel the hurt that he was; might as well be Momma. He went into the kitchen quick, but steady, head cocked to the side; a deep guttural scream poured out of him that faded into, "WHERE IS MY GROVER NOSE!" He grabbed the first dish he saw out of the counter drying rack and lashed it into the tile floor. It shattered to pieces. Felt good to do that! Then it felt suddenly bad. He was socked in the stomach with instant regret. What a foolish thing to have done! But wait, he was mad, it wasn't his fault. He rolled with that mind-frame; it would be his motivation for when momma surely would come and scream at him. He realizes simply using, "I broke your plate because my Grover nose is missing" as an excuse just wouldn't cut the mustard. He had to hang on to the pain of not having his Grover nose, and use it to make momma have some sympathy for him.
It was then that he noticed he had cut his foot, and it was bleeding. He began to cry from that. NEW PLAN!