Ten seconds.

Not much in the grand scheme of things obviously, but give me those ten seconds back and I could really change things.

Two seconds in June. I wouldn't hesitate again. I'd push forward. Find out for sure. Be unafraid.

A couple seconds in July. I'd keep my mouth shut and walk away.

Another second in August. What an opportunity wasted that was.

In September I'd need four seconds back. Four seconds to think clearly. To remember that which I'd known all along, and also that which I'd forgotten from long ago.

Now it's October and I'd like to hold that tenth second in reserve.

I'm sure I'll need it before too long.

One of the more surreal things about having a website is the feedback you get from complete strangers.

Start publishing an online journal and people really start crawling out of the woodwork.

Place forms on your site to allow anonymous messages and your inbox can fill up pretty quickly.

Here are some statistics on the messages sent to me over the past week:

66% were simply positive comments about the site. Of these, 60% were about the pool section, 20% about the main 'blog, and 20% about the cats' section.

Of the remaining 34%, an overwhelming 95% of the messages contained advice of various forms regarding my love life or the lack thereof.

Sixteen messages asked for advice or instruction on playing pool. Three people want to arrange gambling sessions with me.

Three messages asked me if I wanted to adopt a cat. I don't.

There was one offer for a date the next time I'm in Seattle. I think I know who that one was from.

Six messages could be dismissed as simple trolling.

There were three SPAM messages.

And finally, fourteen people asked me what happened to the Pronto section of my site.

I must admit I wasn't expecting to get anywhere near this number of messages. I need to decide what to do about the ones that need a reply. I'd thought at first the I'd just use the appropriate 'blog, but the volume may be too high.

I suppose for now these messages will for the most part go unanswered.

But not unread.

If anyone out there needs a response just use e-mail instead of the web forms. Or put a reply address in your message.

Once I got home last night I ended up lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, or out the window, or at my alarm clock - it all depended on which position my head faced of course - for the entire night.

Finally, I think at about 8:00 AM I got to sleep. Then at 10:00 my body's own circadian rhythm forced me back awake and here I sit having given up on sleep until tonight.

I've always been a very light sleeper, but usually I'm able to fall asleep (or back to sleep, whatever the case may be) fairly quickly. It's just that it doesn't take much to jerk me out of my slumber.

Crickets. Cars on the road. Cats scratching at the litterbox at the other end of the house. It doesn't take much. I'll usually just turn over. On some nights I'll get up and walk into the other bedroom or into the living room and sleep there until the next time I'm awakened by some minor noise. This can happen many times a night. My cats all follow me from room to room. My last girlfriend got used to this as well and would often beat me to the next room to be sure she got her favorite side of the bed.

But this entry is supposed to be about insomnia, and last night's bout in particular.

I had so much going though my head last night. Such a mix of uncertainty and wonder and worry and surprise that I was actually wondering if my mind would ever stop racing.

I wondered about the explanations I owe, and I played out those discussions a million times, never getting them quite right.

I thought about the fox, chewing off its own leg to escape the trap it's caught in. Is the fox showing bravery or cowardice? Or is it just instinct?

I thought about the potential displayed by the weekend I'd just experienced. Is it real, or am I just desperately reaching out at anything that might take my mind off my failure to control my emotions last weekend?

Through all this there ran a single theme. A theme about which I will not write even though the urge to do so is nearly overpowering at times. Times like right now. Some things need to be said privately before they're broadcast to the world.

And some things are better left unsaid.

I've completed a long-overdue revamp of my 'blog search engine.

It now supports quoted phrases and boolean logic.

Yay.

This morning I was witness to a three-car pile-up.

Okay, to be fair, it wasn't really a pileup. It was more like a three-car fender bender.

The driver of the car directly in front of me at the light in Edwardsville, upon seeing the light turn green, decided to immediately jump on the gas and speed through the intersection.

There was only one problem with this plan: The car in front of her was stuck behind a long line of cars waiting for the next light. It was only about fifteen feet ahead of the woman driver in front of me.

She smacked the car in front of her without even hitting her brakes. This collision knocked car number two into the back of car number three.

After a couple of minutes while everyone stood around making sure nobody was hurt, I gave a business card to each driver in case they needed a witness, and went to work.

Just do me already.

I see you nearly every day, and you get bolder and bolder each time I see you.

Would you please cut the crap and just have your way with me?

I promise I won't struggle. Unless you like that kind of thing.

To leave the parking lot at work in the morning you have to push a button. Once you push the button you have to open a metal gate and then walk across the street.

Because pushing the button and opening the gate is hard or something people are in the habit of checking behind them, and if anyone is following closely, holding the gate open for them.

Notice I said closely.

This morning I was a good 20 yards away from gate (crossing the tracks for those familiar with where I'm talking about) and this lady up ahead decided to stand there, holding the gate open, until I arrived.

Now the lady was obviously trying to be nice and polite, but what she was also inadvertantly doing was asking me to speed up, perhaps jog a little, to get to the gate and be all grateful and shit.

I was 20 yards away. She was being polite to the point of rudeness.

I didn't speed up to grab the gate and thank her. I did the next best thing.

I stopped, bent over, and pretended to tie my shoelace.

This took about 20 seconds, and when I stood back up I was pretty miffed to see that she was still standing there holding the gate!

Great, so now I not only had to run up to the gate and be all grateful, I also had to apologize for "tying" my shoelace.

I didn't do those things either. I patted my pockets, pretended to have left something in my car, turned around and walked the other way.

I was glad to see that she was gone from the gate when I returned with the "forgotten item" or I may have had to kiil her.

After, of course, I thanked her for being so damn polite and patient.

Today I wrote a letter.

Probably not a very good one but a very long one.

The topic: private.

The contents: private.

Although I have this 'blog, and I sometimes post crap that just seems way too personal about myself, my life, and the people in my life, there are some things that need to remain private.

This letter is one of them.

I'll have it ready if I ever need it, though some things should probably be said in person.

I think the reason I mention it here is to say how exhilarating it was, after so many weeks of wrapping things up in metaphors and obscure references, to be able to simply write something both true and comprehensible.

I've read that a lot of real writers, when asked why they write, answer the same way.

You don't write because you can. You write because you must. To not write would be to deny who you are.

Now of course I'm far from being a real writer, but I do seem to have this itch that can only be scratched by stringing words together and giving them some permanence - whether on paper, a computer file, or the Internet itself.

This letter I wrote today was freeing. I was able to say what I wanted without fear of repercussions because I had already decided to never send the letter..

It was a lot like my old journals that only I ever read. In those journals is the real me (at least the real me back when I wrote the things) - not some watered-down version of me so tempered by a desire for approval and acceptance that the "me" is nearly unrecognizable.

An example of the real me from 1991:

Evangeline Lilly from Lost.

Wow.

Not all is doom and gloom with me.

I had a few of my friends smell my Monte Carlo last night to see if they could detect the carcass odor.

NotGeorge said he couldn't smell anything.

ElPresidente and his wife both think the smell is simply the musty smell you'd get from too much moisture. I think they're wrong, but at least it means that the smell isn't as disgusting as it used to be.

CoffeeDude refused to smell my car. What's up with that I wonder.