Forgive me readers, for I have sinned. In the Lenten spirit, I'm stepping into this here confessional to divulge some immoral acts I've committed.

Husband and I recently made a pact to be brutally honest. Initial admissions have included deep thoughts, weird mind sparks, guilty pleasures and bad acts as children. It was weird but refreshing. I told him some shit I never told anyone. He explained that saying intrusive thoughts out loud puts a more rational perspective on it, making it easier to manage — and maybe it could help quash anxiety weighing on a heavy soul.

He's like an atheist biblical wise man, covered in dashing good looks, dog hair and beer.

I repress things, which is why I have nausea, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, diarrhea. (Yeah! Pepto Bismol.) Oh, and anxiety.

Coming from a religious background where I was accustomed to burying anything (see: everything) considered wrong, I'm not used to admitting things I have long perceived as evil. But I'm beyond the overly scrupulous private Catholic school days, an outsider of the church and finally nearing escape of religious indoctrination. (It's right behind you!)


It's been 10 years since my last confession.

It was New Year's Eve, and I was hanging with some pals when we thought it would be fun to snort ephedrine. It felt like an air gun filled with cayenne and razors shot through my brain and impaled the back of my skull. I thought we were going to have a Mrs. Mia Wallace situation bust loose.


It was second-grade art class when I spilled Elmer's glue on a workspace I shared with three other kids. I swept up the drip of glue with my index finger and ingested it.

It was high school when my best friend's parents owned a liquor store across the street from the beach. We would sometimes sneak into the beer cooler and get shitfaced.

One time, my dog took a shit all over my couch cushion, so I wiped the soiled mess on my neighbor's snowy yard to somewhat clean it off before I put the cover in the washing machine.

It was April Fool's Day when I called a former fling and told him I was knocked up. I wasn't. He was not a fan of that trick.

One time at the bar, I had to pee so bad, but I knew I wouldn't make it to the bathroom in time, so I dropped my drawers and went on the bar floor.

Up until my 30s, I pretended that I went to church on Sundays. Once when asked where I went that particular Sunday, I explained the splendid homily by the archbishop at the cathedral, to my dad's response: The archbishop is in Italy right now.

One time, my sister and I were laughing so hard we pooped our pants at the same time, then threw our underwear out in a public restroom's tampon trash.

In college, I passed out after putting a pot of water on to boil. One of my roommate's visiting parents walked in to the molten mess on the stove. The dad peeled the pot off the coil burner, peered at me through the gigantic hole and yelled, "What the hell is this?" I blamed it on my sleeping roommate and stayed at my boyfriend's until her family went back home.

I cheated on a boyfriend who was cheating on me. But it was after I knew he was cheating. So it's really his fault.

Growing up in the Midwest, I'd capture fireflies and smash them on the ground to watch the glowing streak.

If I believed in hell, I'd probably be sentenced to burn in it. But instead, I'll let others sweat it out while I use my energy to repair my mental health.

Thanks for the ear. I promise not to pee on you until I throw a rabid jellyfish your way. Then I have to. You understand.

Read more Fantz: Stalk her: