The charges against me were serious. Among them: “You are obsessed with paper towels."

People have been executed in Texas for less than this. But he let me live.

His clemency is stunning when you consider that I was also convicted of “visual chaos.” In addition to acquiring plastic hangers of three different colors, I recklessly littered the living room with cat toys. Unable to afford proper legal representation, I prepared a defense on the grounds that we had cats. The case was settled out of court. I got off with community service, eighteen hours of attending his lectures on the improper usage of yellow sponges.

Miranda Rights were wasted on me. God must have been distracted when assembling me, leaving out a torso and the ability to shut up. I was left high-stepping on legs that began at my shoulders, yelping apologies that always ended in question marks. Would I never scratch the refrigerator with the green sponge again? I knew I was impulsive and sentimental. Would I be more mindful of the Bounty?

But when you are a born criminal, sooner or later, you blacksmith question marks into exclamation marks. I could not be stopped. Even if we had assembled all his paisley aunts and honorable uncles and put out an APB from Maine’s suspenders to Florida’s droopy drawers, they would have remained several steps behind me.

I bought the cats a plush squid filled with psychedelic substances and watched them delight in the existence of their bodies. I affixed my ninety-five Attempts to Become Lovable to the freezer and decorated them with butterfly stickers. I interrupted the man’s video game to alert him to the presence of a rose gold moth in the kitchen. I danced alone to Sri Lankan rap at volumes the neighbors might hear.

Lacking proper consequences, criminals become emboldened. I informed him that I would no longer hear evidence that my mother was a “dotard.” I sent unapproved encouragement notes to his mother. I reviewed his verdict to sentence my magenta clothing to Goodwill and dismissed it as lacking standing.

In the small hours, I crawled out of bed to read about patron saints of sparrows and agitators. I drew my holy cards for uncanonized heroes.

Our world is not safe so long as a convicted independent can rub cocoa butter on her own shoulders. Next, she may line her underwear drawer with red paper. She may wear geranium shirts designed by “The Pioneer Woman” to solemn convocations. She might even draw pictures of herself and hang them on the refrigerator. Just as a domestic cat, left unsocialized long enough, reverts to a feral state.

But the justice system prevails. Raging ink finally flows into a cautionary tale. My misconduct could not go on forever. When the conviction came, the period was as small as an afterthought. “This might not work.”

Not all crimes call for imprisonment. Creative sentencing is required when the jail is the jewel box, dark and safe. Instead of bolting the door, he fiddled with it. I would no longer be guaranteed safekeeping in the turret and he was rescinding the rent-controlled lease on the dungeon.

When I accepted the summary, the judge’s ink was still wet. I moved fast to build momentum. I became airborne. While he was deliberating my fate, I became a speck in the sky. I kept going. I found a treehouse. I brought the cats and plenty of paper towels. My mini fridge is full of peaches. Sometimes, I use the wrong sponge. Freedom is a work in progress. He has not seen me in a long time.