A wave of hot shame washes over me as I write this, even though it happened a week ago. I never thought that I would stoop so low. Other people give in to carnal urges, begging for forgiveness later on Dr. Phil, but not me. My shame begins to spiral as I confess this second egregious sin: I regularly watch the bald one pontificate while eating small chunks of chicken during afternoon breaks from writing. But you are not interested in my smutty TV habits, are you? I imagine that you kind and gentle readers want details—lurid, excruciating details—about the nastiness I did with my fallen body. I’m not one to be squeamishly reticent (though I am one to use a thesaurus), so here they are…

I cheated. After being steadfastly committed for so long, I finally strayed. Just once, well maybe three times, or was it six? I’m not sure how these things are counted. Here’s the long and short of it: I gave in to forbidden love. It was exhilarating, physically and mentally, but of course it could not last. Now it is over and I am left with regrets and recrimination. So…deep breath…okay. It happened in the kitchen, last Sunday afternoon. Unable to control myself, I grabbed what I wanted, hoisted myself onto the countertop, and put tempting slabs of energy into a warm, narrow slot. Do I need to paint a picture?

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