When I was 6, my best friend (whose name was Luke; mine is Luc) and I caught three cats (his, a mutual friends', and one belonging to a kid we knew from school that we didn't like very much) and went to do some research on whether or not cats always land on their feet.
We lived in Mapleton, North Dakota at the time. There were about 120 people in this tiny little town. It is an hour from Fargo. That's immaterial, because it was summer, but I'm just setting the scene.
First we went up on top of our mutual friend's trailer. We used Luke's cat -- tied its front feet together and back feet together with string. Held it upside by the feet. And dropped it.
It fell 12 feet and landed right-side-up, then promptly fell over because it couldn't balance with its front/back feet tied like that.
We were disappointed! So we did something very stupid: we took the other two cats to the schoolhouse. Mapleton had a 3-story schoolhouse that serviced kindergarten and grades 1 & 2, an old brick building, and it had a fire escape that you could climb -- it was the highest point in town. So we went there, him holding our friend's cat, me holding our acquaintences cat. (Our friend's name was Mike, the kid we didn't know very well, his name was Tim).
Well, Mike's cat survived the impact -- for about fifteen seconds. Then it stopped moving. Tim's cat just hit the ground and didn't even twitch. Didn't even bounce.
We both just looked down at those cats, looked at each other, and started making plans about how to bury them. Neither Mike or Tim knew what had happened to their cats, as we buried them under rocks in a culvert.
Later that year, Tim would be hit by a train and chopped into enough peices to require 3 body bags, and we had never told him what happened to his cat. We finally told Mike after Tim died, and he took it pretty well.
That's one of my earliest confessions . . . . I'll try to think of a more amusing one.