Obliviousness Concerning Lapsed Driver License

(alternate title: days of yore bubba's zayda flush with buggy boo horse sense). Norristown City Hall police person informed yours truly on September 15th, 2020 mine automotive driver license expired, thus between January 13th 2019 and September 17th, 2020 I drove automobile, (whether borrowed or owned) without vehicular infraction. Prevarication about me getting arrested absent bail and locked up into solitary confinement without fail predicated upon outdated invalid license lands me in jail cuz fabrication jest haint gonna happen, hammering out suspenseful account I cannot nail, no matter I would love to concoct tall tale Subsequently, yours truly steers toward truth telling in the main, whereby prefabrication painstakingly heavily taxes me aging brain especially bragging about heavenly guardian angel, said divine intervention I abstain, though quite tempting to (beer lee) draft believable hopping plain vanilla drab lackluster circumstance, and embellish a flimsy fib including agent provocateurs quite urbane, whereby unwittingly, haphazardly, and accidentally committing non moving violation imposing driving record stain, particularly when aforesaid minor harmless transgression invites punishing reign innocently, only unintentionally to flout PENNDOT rule, which hoop fully doth explain reason nevertheless quandary necessitated posse comitatus. Therefore ipso facto such quasi confession, albeit unexciting and bland necessitates self imposed liberty letting mine imagination command poetic license crafting experience resident within dreamland, where truthfulness I blithely expand, cuz anonymous reader(s) more inclined to gravitate toward firebrand, wannabe, whereby reasonable rhyme nothing particularly grand written by invisible hand. Provide me please gainful opportunity to enable and allow glorified, edified, and crucified across millennia one divine creature hood da boss (no not Bruce Springsteen) sanctifying supposed dregs of humankind essentially flotsam and jetsam dross humdrum life of random Tulliver kin inhabiting the mill on the floss a riveting saga (also Silas Marner written by same author) with matted gloss. Ah, methinks how George Eliot   (Mary Ann Evans) quite literary ace, her fiction she didst buttress and brace galvanizing, fictionalizing,  and enumerating disgrace appears quaint, thee second  decade of twenty first century nostalgic imaginary place, yours truly would clamor to live exempt from careering, jackknifing,  and speeding, rat race peace of mind impossible mission  leisurely pedestrian strolling (think about taking stop at Willoughby), where helter skelter breakneck pace nonexistent without a trace.