Okay, so I did something really bad. Definitely the worst thing I've ever done. Even worse than--well, Mom sometimes reads this, so never mind. I beat up a seven-year-old. I mean, I didn't know he was a seven-year-old. He was gigantic! He must have some sort of disease. I don't know what happened. He was really annoying and he was picking on Stevie. Then he took the last two pieces of pizza, and I was stuck with American goulash. I just snapped. Can you blame me? I started pummeling him. I was actually enjoying it; I'd never done that well before. The next thing I know, I'm in the nurse's office and he's crying that he's seven.

I don't beat up little kids. (Dewey doesn't count.) I still have this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I feel like such a thug. The worst part was that no one in this family seemed to realize I did anything wrong. They just thought it was funny. No wonder I don't know how to act. I tried to do something really good to make up for the bad thing I did, but that didn't go right. I even went to church. That's when Mom got suspicious. She finally told me this feeling is my conscience, and the fact I get sick means I'm a good person. This conscience thing sucks! I wonder how Reese got away without having one. One last thing: Mom and I need to stop having these little heart-to-heart chats in the bathroom--or Dad needs to learn to wait!