For the week’s misdemeanors I compiled one count of stealing a Twix from the Mini Mart, multiple counts of stealing beer from Kieren (let the record state—I was merely an accomplice), one count of changing the school’s motto on their master e-mail signature from “Achieving Excellence” to “Achieving Ecstasy” after The Rocky Mountain News did an exposé on the French club’s summer trip to Paris, four counts of allowing Kori to cheat off my Spanish homework, one count of ditching supervised study in conjunction with one count of Menstruation Fabrication so I could watch Maury Povich on Nurse Zimmerman’s couch, lost count of smoking cigarettes, and three counts of sneaking out after curfew and drinking aforementioned stolen beer. With cases of this nature, my defense strategy was a combination of repent and trivialize. Something along the lines of: “I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have done it. This was the only time, I won’t do it again, I promise.”

And just in case it might appear like I use my computer hacking skills only for evil, I’d like the record to reflect that I personally shut down two perverted seniors’ attempt at an “Up-Skirt” Web site by redirecting their URL to a site catering to a slightly different clientele—urm … I believe they call themselves Chubby Chasers.

Felonies have no real defense strategy; generally I just wing it. And by winging it, I mean a lot of yelling, usually something retro and eighties, like “It’s my body!” Since felonies tend to elicit an immediate reaction, I could rule them out of cracking Da Sticky Note Code. But for the record, this week there had been only one: the tongue piercing.

I still can’t believe I went through with it. I hate painful things. Hate pain. Detest pain. But Kori was giving me shit for always wussing out on her with stuff like this, told me it wasn’t actually pain I hate but the fear of pain and that it was about time I got over that crap.

Then she reminded me how pissed off my mother would be. So I did it. And it hurt. Confirming that yes, I do hate pain. Actual pain.

I haven’t blatantly flashed it at my mom, but I don’t see how she can’t know about it. The first two days I sounded like Marlee Matlin whenever I spoke, and Random Acts of Blindness were not something she regularly practiced. Something had to be distracting her.

I glanced over my list. Something was missing.