Convict me of dandelions, large puddles of ketchup, June scent of Scioto rain. At breakfast I get drunk on Bach, chasers of Copland and Joplin, hotdogs from a cart by noon. Find me guilty of eating at the kitchen sink, ordering drive-thru McDonald's fries ― you shotgun, me in a Stetson. I pretend to hate mosquitoes on the Fourth of July ― come at me with sparklers, buckeyes, little American flags stapled to sticks. I want to pursue our life, liberty, and happiness, but there's something you…