When I was in 2nd or 3rd grade, I took out the school's library and a ton of books.

Why? I have no idea whatsoever. It was one of those spur-of-the-moment things. I actually loved the library, and I spent quite a bit of my time in there reading college-level astronomy textbooks. Yes, I was an advanced reader for my age, but I was still a stupid little kid.

At the end of school on a Friday, I plopped a wad of paper towels in the sink that was next to the librarian's desk. I then turned on the water and left. About five minutes later, I had completely forgotten about it, and was playing soccer with my friends.

On Monday, I was pulled out of class to see the principal. Sitting in his office was my very pissed-off mother and her alcoholic boyfriend. They knew it was me, and I didn't deny it. I kept answering them with the shrug and the "I don't know." I know how that routine pisses me off when my kids use it on me, so I suspect I was lucky to survive to my next birthday.

I had flooded the library up to the bottom inch of the lower shelves of books. I killed a forest worth of books, about 4,000. They had to repair the shelves, the floor and the roof below. My family was rather poor, and couldn't foot the $85,00000 bill. This was in the very early 1970's, mind you, when money was worth more. Luckily the insurance covered it. I went to a psychologist for two years to find out why I did it.

To this day I couldn't say why. Books are a large part of my life. Perhaps my writing and reading is my personal penance for my stupid act of destruction.