...I'd pardon you.

There are still a few hours left to go, but I thought I'd go ahead and cast out my Thanksgiving wishes now. Of course, I'm not without my motives. I'm posting this entry on my brand new Motorola Droid. Before last week, leaving the house meant losing connection with the world. That's not always a bad thing, but it can put a kink into my connectivity from to time. So, as leary as I am of having my e-mail follow everywhere I go... I'm pretty stoked to be LiveJournaling from the passenger seat as Jessie drives us back to our hometown for the big day of gluttony. I haven't been this technologically savy since I got my bag phone in 1995. Heh.

Hope you guys have more things to be thankful for (and more turkey) than ever before this year...

Post from mobile portal m.livejournal.com

I own more shoes than any straight man probably should.

In the fire department, things don’t always go the way you would think. I’m sure you could say that about all sorts of aspects, but in this case I’m talking about the runs we make.

On Tuesday, we were hopping. Three of our runs came back-to-back-to-back. Not only were we busy, but most of them were interesting in one way or another – usually a welcome thing. Yet, on Friday, with football games and parties and drinking and the tendency for people to fight with those they love, we almost pitched a shut-out. The only thing that kept us from the goose egg was a pretty boring medical call halfway through the shift.

The upside to Friday's inaction was that I had all night to sleep and that had been my plan when I turned off the light around midnight. Instead, I seemed to be awake at least every hour or so. Somebody called the wrong number – twice – to wake me about 1:30a. I rolled over a little while later to hear the other engine company on the radio in the next room over (I’m usually oblivious to that). And then there were the dreams…

I wish I could remember them all. I know I woke up at least three times because of the dreams, but I only remember part of one. I do know that none of them were pleasant at all, and I’m sure that further diminished the quality of sleep I got.

The one dream I do remember had me and some family member – maybe Jessie – at a state park type of place. It had a coastal feel to it because it was rocky and I don’t really remember seeing anything on the horizon. We were walking along a path that was made of rock and sort of jutted out on a cliff, but had been smoothed out much like a sidewalk.

While walking along this path, some woman – I don’t know if she was with us or we just passed her – started complaining of having a heart attack and dropped to the ground. Instead of sticking around to do what I could to help, I went to run to call for an ambulance. I had to leave to call because for some reason, I didn’t have a cell phone on me. I almost always have a cell phone.

To return to the car to get my phone, I remember climbing up crazy steep steps. When I got to an area that felt as though it was halfway to the car, I rounded a corner and saw two guys lying in the ground who had been shot. I didn’t stop to help because I thought whoever did the shooting was still hanging around. But I didn’t keep running to get my phone so I could call help for all three people. Nope, I ran back to heart attack woman to tell her that I couldn’t call for help on account of the two dudes who had been shot.

And then I woke up.

Analyze that.

I don't know if it was good sleep, but it was hard and much needed.

Being up for at least 24 hours was almost a weekly occurrence in college. I ran the university newspaper for most my time on campus, but I was horrible at time management. So every Wednesday, I started out with a dream of getting done on time... but it never seemed to happen. Lay-out nights for the weekly paper that used to end about 10 or 11p started slipping later and later through my career. Wrapping up at 4 and 5 in the morning was probably the norm. The longest night I remember was one where we finished the paper about 8a the next morning. Ouch.

If there was a perk to being awake all night, it was crawling into bed the next afternoon. We had a paper staff meeting every Thursday night that I had to be awake for, but the few hours that I had clear before them to sleep were pure bliss. Even if I didn't get as much sleep as I needed, I still felt refreshed. (Which probably explains all of the Thursday night drinking I did.)

That's the one thing I miss about my youth. Keeping long hours hurts more now than it did 10 years ago... and it takes so much more time and effort to recover. Come to think of it, the same goes for drinking. Heh.

Truth be told, I could have gone to sleep last night as soon as dinner was finished. So, why was I still on LiveJournal at 11p? And why did I fight sleep like a four-year-old for a couple of hours more after that? I knew I needed rest and I refused to get it. That makes no sense whatsoever. Maybe it's the same reason I've been eating like I'm pregnant and have found 10 of the 60 pounds I'd lost this year.

I'm not cutting myself, but this is obviously some sort of self abuse. What's crazy is that I have identified the problem and still haven't repaired it. That makes even less sense that not sleeping when I should.

If my math is right (and it might not be), I've had somewhere in the neighborhood of four hours of sleep out of the last 41. I don't think that's a good average.

I was up yesterday about 5:30a for my shift at the firehouse. We had a crazy full day that began in earnest about 8:30a or 9 and didn't so much as slow down until it was nearly 11p. When the calls finally stopped, I accidentally fell asleep (accidental because it occurred without my knowledge while sitting up instead of being planned and under the covers of my bunk). The quick nap was just enough that I didn't need to sleep any more.

Instead of forcing myself into bed, I wrote the reports I'd planned to put off until this morning. I handled a few other clerical chores I'd been neglecting, and I finally crawled into the rack about 3:30a and slept for three hours or so until it was time for shift change.

I had a great plan to come home and sleep all morning today, but you know how well poorly great plans work out. One thing led to another and now here I am, writing an LJ entry instead of being unconscious in the bed. Well, I don't think I can put off unconsciousness much longer. It's about to take me down whether I want it to or not.

Wish me sweet dreams.

One good thing about Halloween was that even with 200+ kids, nothing really creepy happened. One year, a bunch of high school kids were prowling the streets entirely too late in the evening with pillow cases. It was hard to tell if they were punctually-challenged or looking for a 7-11 to knock over. Another year, I had a kid threaten to jank my candy if he didn't get the kind he wanted. I told him he was going to enjoy the penitentiary. Yep, 2009 was pretty laid back... except for the yard pissers.

You read right. Yard pissers.

A group of four or five kids had just left my house when I saw one of them wander into my neighbors' yard across the street. Now, every light was turned off on that house, so it was obvious that they were closed for the holiday. I stuck my head out the door to keep an eye on things and saw the kid stop about three or four feet into their yard and assume the position. His back was to me. His feet were shoulder-width apart. Both hands were in front of him. His shoulders relaxed. He was pissing in their yard!

Now, I've found myself urinating in a lot of unique places -- some much worse than a stranger's front yard. And certainly, I'd hate for a kid to have to finish trick-or-treating with warm, soggy, stinky britches... But is the front yard really the best place when you're 12, sober and dozens of people who don't want to see your tallywacker are walking the street? I headed outside with the desire to stop him, but pretty much drew a blank on what to say.

By the time I reached the curb, I'd laid eyes on dude's little brother. Yep. Same deal -- feet wide, hands in front and pissing in the yard. And then, of course, I noticed that the whole scene was being supervised by the kids' parents -- or some other guardian-type person appearing to be of legal age to... I don't know... run for president.

With what was essentially a yard pissers foreman on the scene, I decided against taking any intervening action. Besides, if my neighbors' yard was good enough for #1, I didn't want them coming back to my place if they suddenly felt the urge for a good ol' #2.

I'm not sure she's ready for canonization (namely because she's still alive), but today is alison22lynn's birthday. I don't want to tell a lady's secrets, but she's knocking pretty heavy on 30's door. That doesn't make her old, of course... but it makes me feel older. If I'm doing my math correctly, I still remember a time when she had all of life's answers -- at the ripe age of 21.

There was a time when I thought a man who shaved his foot hair would be... Well, let's say fruity. That was before my own toe hair started to itch every now and then inside of my socks. Fruity? Itchy? I know which one I'm going with.

So, from time to time, I trim the sprigs that appear on my toes and foot. This usually occurs without incident while providing an aesthetically pleasing and itch-free appendage. Yeah, I said usually.

Somehow, I managed to scrape skin off both of my second toes the other night. (Second toes? Index toes? Pointer toes? Whatever.) I've cut myself shaving before. No biggie. Well, this happened Friday and my toes still hurt. Luckily, it's not "real" pain anymore. A night or two of band-aids and Neosporin helped eliminate that, but I can still feel where I botched the job.

God bless you women who do it all of the time without needing a transfusion.

...but in a good way. In the last 28 hours or so, I've left the National Fire Academy, driven to Philadelphia, taken in as many of the sites I possibly could, headed northeast and met jeniferrobin for the first time in person, visited Liberty State Park, driven through the Holland Tunnel, and navigated Manhattan traffic with my Hyundai Accent like the bad ass I am. I went to the Empire State Building, but the rain is already here... and there is no sense in paying good money to observe clouds from 86 stories up. I can just wait for the next foggy day and do that on the ground.

Tomorrow, I'm going to take the $5 umbrella I bought at Walgreen's and wander the city. I've got a couple or three places I'd like to see before climbing back into the rental and making tracks to Maryland for one more week of class. You should see this umbrella. I've used it once and I think it's already broken. Oh, well. It was dry under my broken umbrella... It's good for something.

G'night, John Boy.

Why can't I ever be motivated to do something at a reasonable hour of the day? Why do I do my best work when there's a deadline breathing down my back, which is usually when the rest of the world is sleeping and I should be, too? Answers? Anyone?

After landing at BWI Sunday night, we made the world's shortest taxi to the end of the terminal and then abruptly stopped. It was almost as if the pilot was surveying the gates in search of the parking spot closest to the door. He came on the intercom and said, "We have a good news, bad news situation."

"The good news is that we arrived on time. The bad news is that the local folks don't know it yet." It was indeed good news since we'd left Atlanta some 20 minutes past our scheduled departure time. As a murmur of sorts rolled through the cabin in response to the announcement, the captain keyed the mic again. "The great news is that I just saved a bundle by switching my insurance to Geico."

It's good to know a sense of humor still exists in the airline industry.

* * * * *
That story reminds me of one of my first plane rides ever -- in 1984 on a family vacation to Disney World. My children -- who, God help them, will only know a "post-911 world" -- will find it hard to believe, but cockpit doors weren't always locked and sometimes, you even got to take a visit inside.

All of the details escape me since I was six years old at the time, but I remember us being held at the gate on one leg of our trip. In an effort to kill time and to entertain the masses, the flight attendants started inviting kids up to tour the cockpit one-by-one. All of the kids were older than me, but I wasn't discouraged me. I finally caught a flight attendant's eye and (I'm guessing) laid out the perfect puppy dog face. I was one of the last one's picked before we finally pushed back to leave.

In the cockpit, one of the pilots seemed to give the perfect explanation on how to fly the place -- except that he did so while talking like the Micro Machines Man. Seriously. Everything he said seemed to make sense, but it zipped by me pretty quick. Besides, six-year-olds -- even precocious ones -- are easily lost with talk of throttle, thrust, ailerons and lift.

After the lesson, the other pilot handed me the mic with instructions to make an announcement. I was to repeat after him -- "Buckle your seat belts. Big daddy is about to blast off." I said it, but I'm not sure anyone understood me through my laughter.

We need more laughter on airplanes.

"I have no ambition in this world but one, and that is to be a fireman. The position may, in the eyes of some, appear to be a lowly one; but we who know the work which a fireman has believe his is a noble calling. There is an adage which says that, 'nothing can be destroyed except by fire.' We strive to preserve from destruction the wealth of the world, which is the product of the industry of men, necessary for the comfort of both the rich and the poor. We are defenders from fires of the art which has beautified the world, the product of the genius of men and the means of refinement of mankind. But, above all, our proudest moment is to save lives of men -- the work of God Himself. Under the impulse of such thoughts, the nobility of the occupation thrills us and stimulates to deeds of daring, even at the supreme sacrifice. Such considerations may not strike the average mind, but they are sufficient to fill to the limit our ambition in life and to make us serve the general purpose of human society."

- Chief Edward Croker, FDNY
(Circa 1905)

Sometimes, procrastination has it's benefits.

Less than 48 hours before making the all-day drive to New Orleans for a conference last September, a sinus infection made me rethink my travel plans. With a stuffy head and a stuffy nose, the last place I wanted to be was behind the wheel. So, I hit up Travelocity and actually found an airline ticket that I could pay for with the mileage check the city had already cut me. I booked it on the spot.

Through what turned out to be a technological glitch, the Web site showed a very small plane on the return trip from New Orleans to Houston. Had the plane really been a puddle-jumper, my seat selection of 2A would have been just another ordinary window view. However, the plane turned out to be a 737 and my place in seat 2A was in first class.

A late night in the French Quarter turned into an early morning and I only caught three or four hours of sleep before heading to the airport. Had this been a regular flight, I would have most certainly been unconscious before the plane made it to the runway. As it was, I found myself in the land of wide-bodied leather seats with complimentary drinks in real glasses. I wasn't going to miss out on the good life for anything.

As we flew south and then made our way west along the Gulf coast towards Texas, I rarely took my head out of the window. I've long since had a love affair with south Louisiana and it was pretty cool to see that part of the state from the air. Everything seemed to come together for that flight. The view was perfect. The weather was perfect. The first class ticket was perfect. The tunes in my ear -- Cowboy Mouth's newest album, Fearless -- turned out to be perfect, too.

"Whatcha gonna do with the restlessness inside your worried mind?
How you think you're ever gonna get ahead when you feel so far behind?
Step inside this endless moment for a subtle touch of grace
I've always found my strength inside the act of faith"

My life had been anything but perfect in the weeks leading up to my trip. I felt plagued with by a variety of issues -- some that I would go on to write about here and others I kept to myself. New Orleans did it's part, however, and reality took a vacation. For four or five days in September, it felt as though anything could happen at any time. I was reminded how absolutely great it feels to be alive. That feeling sort of showcased itself at 30,000 feet and for a brief moment, I decided that anything was possible, that nothing was set in stone and that those were good things.

For a long time now, the one thing that seemed most impossible to me was changing the direction of the numbers on my bathroom scale. I was a slender kid through elementary school, but found myself shopping in the husky section by the time I approached middle school age. Looking back at pictures, my extra padding was mostly baby fat that would have worn itself off with a little effort. However, more than a couple of people had already deemed me fat by that time in my life and I guess I believed them.

If eating like a teenage boy isn't bad enough, I spent a lot of my high school years eating like a much bigger teenage boy than I really was. Why eat one hamburger when you could have two? Why have just a slice of pizza when you can eat the whole damn pie? Some of my habits wouldn't have been life altering if I'd still been playing football or baseball but those I gave up organized sports by the time I was 16. Slowly and without noticing it, I kept getting bigger and bigger. I finally grew into the fat person I had always thought I was.

This February, I realized that I had to do something about my weight. I'd reached a point where I was no good at my job, my weight was interfering with my health and I could see myself dying young because of it. My first action was to initiation portion control cold turkey.

One of the first or second nights of trying to curb my portions was spaghetti night. I'd grown so used to two platefuls of spaghetti, that it hurt just a little bit to walk away after just one. At the time, I had so much weight I wanted to lose that I didn't think it was possible to lose any. It was hard to see how small changes would have any impact at all. After a few weeks, it became apparent that the small changes are sometimes the most important.

I started taking a serious look at the meals I consumed. I started using The Daily Plate at LiveStrong.Com, which provides nutritional information for just about every type of food you can buy in a restaurant or at the grocery store. As it turns out, I was eating a tremendous amount of crap and in quantities that were unnecessary. A typical evening out at a restaurant for me was practically double a normal person's recommended caloric intake. I asked myself if I really needed an appetizer, a full main course and dessert. I decided that it wasn't normal to eat so much that your gut hurt after dinner.

Combined with watching what food I was putting in my mouth, our shift made a new year's resolution to work out together on duty. For the most part, we played basketball with a few junior high kids after school. I always wondered how it looked for people to see firefighters getting their ass handed to them by school kids. (It's bad enough that some people don't think we should work out on duty. I always imagined a complaint letter to the mayor saying, "and they suck at basketball, too.") When we first started playing in January, a half-court game whipped me. Within a couple of months, we were playing full court. Soon after that, I took up running on some of my days off. (It was really more like walking really fast and jogging every now and then.)

I lost 3.4 pounds between February 8 and February 12. Weighing myself every morning I went to work (which is usually every third calendar day), the display on the scale continued to shrink. With only a couple of exceptions, every weigh in was less than the previous one from February 12 until the end of June.

By June 30, I was 60 pounds lighter than my heaviest weight ever -- a mark I'd reached in January.

Once again, I was reminded how absolutely great it feels to be alive. Looking back at the previous five months and 60 pounds, it was easy to see that anything really was possible. I was proof.

Whatcha gonna do with the restlessness inside your worried mind?
How you think you're ever gonna get ahead when you feel so far behind?
Step inside this endless moment for a subtle touch of grace
I've always found my strength inside the act of faith

I believe in the spirit of rock and roll
In the eternal strength of the immortal soul
Beause sometimes everybody's got to let it go
I believe in the power of love

I believe in the sounds of Sam & Dave
That little children should occasionally misbehave
That all that you get is all that you gave
I believe in the power of love

Little boy staring out a window sill to a world that doesn't care
Everybody around is so much bigger, they don't even know he's there
But one day he's gonna grow to be a man and maybe then they'll see
He'll provide the hope and care for the family

I believe in the chance of love at first sight
That your life doesn't always have to be a fight
And if you do it at all, you ought to do it right
I believe in the power of love

I believe that sometimes you've got to take a stand
That you're holding my heart when your holding my hand
Because everything eventually is in God's hands
I believe in the power of love

I have got to take the best of me and keep that part alive
Why'd I ever want to shut that down and kill my soul?

I believe that sometimes you've got to take a chance
That you can't live your life just listening to cant's
Because the thrill of the fall is part of the thrill of the dance
I believe in the power of love.

I believe that we're never really all alone
Because there's so much more than anything we've known
New Orleans is always gonna be my home
I believe in the power of love

I believe in the spirit of rock and roll,
In the eternal strength of the immortal soul
Because sometimes everybody's got to let it go
I believe in the power of love

I believe in the power of love

I believe in the power of love

-I Believe
Written by Fred LeBlanc
Performed by Cowboy Mouth

(Here's the link to the song if the embeded player doesn't load.)

Although you wouldn't know it by the weather, summer is coming to an end in this part of the world. The football players have been in two-a-days for a couple of weeks and schools are cranking up for another fall.  Although I've got plenty of friends and kin folk teaching school, the one noticeable change for me is my commute time. When school is out, it takes me about 20 minutes to drive from the firehouse to home. Once the soccer moms' SUVs and school busses fill the streets, the trip can jump up to 40 or 45 minutes. I hate school. Heh.

If you've been following me for a while, you know that I wasn't much of a student. I think I was smart enough -- at least, the standardized tests said as much. It's just that I wasn't big on things like homework and studying and putting other parts of my life on hold for school. I've been told those were important issues. Somehow, I managed to get through college and get my degree. It only took me six years and three universities to make it happen.

For the most part, I think that life takes its course based on the culmination of many small decisions. Every once in a while, though, you get to make one of those decisions that changes your entire life. I made one of those in the Fall of 1996. After exactly one semester at the school I thought was going to be the perfect fit for me, I transferred out.

Throughout my entire senior year of high school, I had this one university picked out. It was four hours from home -- which seemed like the ideal distance. They had a pretty strong radio & television program, which appealed to me because I wanted to remain in journalism without having to smell the ink. I took the ACT only twice because on my second try, I scored just high enough for a free ride. The stage was set for me. It was the best arrangement possible. And then my mom & I made the drive up to campus for freshman orientation and the first day of school.

One day before that trip, I was probably convinced that I was the most sage 18-year-old on the planet. However, when it came time to say goodbye to my momma and face college all by my lonesome, an 18-month-old might have been more stoic. I was scared shitless. My mom, who had raised me by herself for the seven years prior, was pretty scared, too. I don't hold it against her, but she planted the seed in my head that I could come home whenever I wanted to... That she would support me if I decided that school wasn't the place for me... And so I started day one of my college career looking for an "exit strategy." It didn't take me long to put one together.

I sometimes wonder what would have been different had I stayed there.

The answer is easy... Everything.

Staying would likely mean a much different relationship with Jessie -- one way or the other. It means I would have never met Alex or Lindsay or Jonathan or the dozens of other people who were so important to me when I finally found my college home. Crazy enough, it would most certainly mean no fire department. I didn't become seriously interested in becoming a firefighter until covering them for the local paper after leaving that first school. Who knows... I might have actually gone into radio or television. With the economy and the 24-hour news cycle ruining journalism, I can't imagine how miserable I would be today.

The crazy thing about it is that even knowing that so many good things happened in my life because I bailed, I would discourage anyone in my shoes to do the same. More is learned by staying the course, I would tell them. Quitting is easy for a reason. Hopefully, they would follow my advice and learn many lessons in the process... But at what cost? That's the gamble of waking up every morning and getting out of bed. We never know where the decisions we make today will lead us.

I'm doing my best to enjoy the perks of adult living, so I don't usually find myself wishing to be in school again. But every once in a while, a three-month summer vacation wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing. This week's return to WNL is in honor of summer vacations from school and the magic they can create. If you're still enjoying them, soak 'em up... They're about as far from reality as you can get.

Walking along beneath the lights of that miracle mile
Me and Mary making our way into the night
You can hear the cries from the carnival rides
The pinball bells and the ski-ball slides
Watching the summer sun fall out of sight

There's a warm wind coming in from off of the ocean
Making its way past the hotel walls to fill the street
Mary is holding both of her shoes in her hand
Says she likes to feel the sand beneath her feet

And in the morning I'm leaving, making my way back to Cleveland
So tonight I hope that I will do just fine
And I don't see how you could ever be anything but mine

There's a local band playing at the Seaside Pavilion
And I got just enough cash to get us in
And as we're dancing Mary's wrapping her arms around me
And I can feel the sting of summer on my skin

In the midst of the music, I tell her I love her
We both laugh 'cause we know it isn't true
Ah but Mary there's a summer drawing to an end tonight
And there's so much that I long to do to you

But in the morning I'm leaving, making my way back to Cleveland
So tonight I hope that I will do just fine
And I don't see how you could ever be anything but mine

And in the morning I'm leaving, making my way back to Cleveland
So tonight I hope that I will do just fine
And I don't see how you could ever be anything but mine

Mary, I don't see how you could ever be anything but mine

-Anything But Mine
Scooter Carusoe

I may not be writing, but I haven't stopped thinking. I think about everything -- sometimes twice.

It's easy to say that too much thinking is a bad thing. Crash Davis said as much in Bull Durham, "don't think, it can only hurt the ball club." But mostly, too much thinking is only a bad thing when it doesn't reveal any answers. When you figure something out, it suddenly becomes worth the effort.

So, what have I figured out?

Whatever problem I've had over the last four years can probably be traced back to my inability to surrender or be vulnerable or to say whatever it was I was truly thinking or feeling.

That would probably strike a lot of people I know as strange. To them, I'm among the most out-spoken people around. I'm known for voicing my opinion despite the risks and charging ahead, occasionally making enemies along the way. But what people seem to be and what they really are isn't always the same. For as many of my opinions as I spew, I hold nearly as many back.

There's a much more fragile side of me that exists and I have decided that most of the things that have tripped me up in my past can be traced to that side.

God, I love a revelation.

I went digging for a dry erase marker yesterday afternoon. This isn't something that we exactly keep in stock at Casa de Fletcher, but I have a white plastic tray in my desk where all pens, pencils, markers and other assorted writing utensils go to die. I thought I had a pretty good chance at finding one in there.

This tray lives on a shelf where lots of other things go to die, too, it seems. I found some old letters, a canceled check, a couple of ticket stubs from the 2008 football season, some expired medication and an old paper journal of mine. Okay, so I didn't find the journal. I knew it was in there, but digging for the marker sort of required me to pull it out. Deciding to blow the dust off of it... well, that was all me.

In an effort to tie up my loose ends, let me say now that I found the marker. I'm not sure there's another one in that tray, but there is certainly one of every other type of writing device. Well, there's no quill. I don't think the feather would fit. Okay, loose end tied -- moving on...

So, this morning, I decided to take a peek at the journal. I sort of opened it up with one eye squinted. You might describe my face as expressing a sort of wince. I really thought I was going to open it up and read some excruciatingly cheesy shit. As it turns out, that wasn't the case at all.

This particular journal spans August 2003 through September of the next year. The happy glaze that time coats onto the past allowed me to forget how much stuff I was dealing with at the time. The writing was very raw... And pure... And after intending to only read one or two entries, I read almost all of them. It was a happening time. That year is when so much went down with Alex and Jessie and Robin and Christy... Maybe even Melody, although I didn't write about her. I'd just finished my first year at the FD before starting the journal. During that span, I bought a truck I didn't think I could afford (I'm still driving it) and I moved into a swanky new apartment to keep from getting murdered in my old one -- both were big events for this 25- or 26-year-old.

Part of me wants to go back and slap some sense into that kid. Many of the entries talk about things I didn't like about my life then -- but only recently got around to doing anything about. Why couldn't I have been more motivated, dammit. Why couldn't I have taken care of business in 2003 or 2004 and not have to worry about it today? Of course, the flip side is that some of the entries show insecurities that I still have even now... And I'm sure my desire to give my past self a pop in the head will still be around five years from now.

I am deeply relieved that there are some good solid entries in there about Jessie. I've done a lot of writing online and elsewhere about Alex and Lindsay and others. I sometimes worry about what Jessie would think if something happened to me and she were to read all that I've written. It might seem as though I wasn't thinking about her all of the times I was writing about some other girl... But the truth is, I was doing all of that writing because of her. If there hadn't been a Jessie, I wouldn't have had to do the soul-searching when each of the other girls came my way.

With that said, my reading tonight proved to me that I never gave Alex a chance. She was right. She never got her shot at turning our crazy relationship into something serious & proper. In no way does that mean I would change anything. No regrets, right? As much as I loved Alex -- and always will in one way or another -- I don't think we were meant to be married. I don't think we would have worked out as man & wife. Maybe those feelings were strong then and led me to my decision... But, looking back, I don't see why I didn't give her the fair shot she wanted. Shame on me for treating her that way. I'm supposed to be the good guy -- I ride the fire truck and save the day. I wish I could have seen that I was doing anything but that at the time...

Of course, all of this makes me wonder what I'll be thinking of 2009 when I sit down years from now and read about today. Oh, wait... With the way I've been handling things, I won't have anything to read from 2009. I'm sorry about that, too. I can't promise that I'll fix it. Just know that I'm here on the other side of your computer screen knowing that I should.