In 1974, I picked the lock of my sister's private diary. The fact that it contained nothing of interest, and in fact was downright boring except for pictures of large almond-shaped eyes leaking fat tears, is no excuse for my reckless invasion of her privacy.
In 1976, I led my English teacher, Mrs. Worsham, to believe I had read Grapes of Wrath, which I had not done, even going so far as to write a "book report." The report was largely based on the first four pages - which I had read - and conjecture based on the book's title and information written on the back cover. I had planned to get a Classics Comics version of the book, or watch the film version to perfect the deception, but was unable to do so. (This was an era before streaming video or even VHS.) Later I loudly complained when the paper received a D.
On a related charge, in conversations with friends over the years, I allowed others to believe I had read books I had not read, seen movies I had not seen, and knew of bands I had never heard of. I did this in an effort to seem "cool" and be accepted, but my pathetic eagerness to please does not excuse this misdoing.
In 1984, after repeatedly assuring my wife I had "definitely" mailed the electric bill, and maintaining that the power company's accusation we were behind in our payments was a mistake on their part, I found the unmailed bill in the trashcan, of which discovery I did not inform Nancy.
From 2005 to the present, while stoutly denying to Nancy that I allow our dog Zoe into the bed with me when she is away on business, I have in fact not only allowed Zoe to get into bed, but deliberately and premeditatedly put the dog in bed with me.
I throw myself on the mercy of the court.
