I did a lot of things I shouldn't have done.
Now don't misunderstand me, I never killed anyone or knocked off a bank or voted for a Clinton, but there are a few indiscretions that I would like to request at this time be expunged from the record. In that light, I hereby offer the following apologies/confessions:
To my mom: There are a more things than I could detail in a year of blogs, so we'll just focus on a couple here. Remember ALL those Star Wars figures you bought me? There were dozens of them, and most suffered the same ignominious fate -- buried up to their shoulders, and their heads golfed off. I'm a parent now and I buy toys. I am REALLY sorry.
And the statue on top of the piano -- I'm sorry we played soccer in the living room.
And I'm sorry I was (am) such a know-it-all.
And I'm sorry for breaking into your locked bedroom, just because I could.
And I'm sorry our house had red and green and blue and yellow shag carpeting (this wasn't my fault, but I'm still sorry).
To the owners of the local grocery store: I'm sorry I climbed up on your roof, and threw Oreos at your patrons.
To most of my teachers in High School: For not taking you serious when you told me that I should really try to come to class more often...you were serious?
To my childhood neighbors: I'm sorry we randomly fired sharp arrows over the houses, into neighboring streets. I'm so glad no one was hurt (or at least no one I ever heard of...) And to the Crapos in particular, I'm sorry I shot an arrow into your roof, and another through your garage door. It was nothing personal, just poor marksmanship.
To the little bird at Scout camp: I'm sorry I threw that hatchet high up into the tree, over and over again trying to hit you. And to all the scouts on the ground under the tree, I'm sorry I endangered your lives -- over and over again. Obviously I never made it to Eagle Scout.
To my wife: I'm sorry I fell asleep that time in the dorms -- while you were kissing me.
To Mrs. Olsen, my sixth grade teacher: It was me. I did it. The Respect Book -- that wonderful experiment in discipline that you tried that year, the book that we miscreants had to write our names in whenever we acted up, gradually progressing in stages of severity, until it climaxed in a meeting with our parents and the principal, THAT BOOK -- you may have noticed that it was missing. I stole it. Not only did I steal it, but I ritualistically burned it on our back patio. The little yellow blob of melted plastic -- the stain of my sin -- remained fused to the cement for many years afterward.
It was my one great act of defiance, and I do not apologize, but I do confess. I did it for sixth graders everywhere.
To all of you that I snowed into thinking I was a good kid: Forgive me.
I think that's enough for now.