Okay, I guess I'll type something while I wait for my heartbeat to return to normal.

If it ever does.

I was just in bed, replaying the events and conversations of the day. It was 3:20 AM.

My doorbell rang.

I stayed where I was. Trying to fool myself into thinking that I'd imagined it.

My doorbell rang again.

At first, I thought that perhaps it was one of my friends in trouble, or maybe some motorist with car trouble.

But, because my mind works the way it works, as I got out of bed and groped for some clothes, my thoughts raced back to a night over two years ago. I thought about how police had appeared at my sister's house in the middle of the night, and how they'd given her the worst news possible.

My doorbell rang again.

My heart rate doubled.

I went to the door and looked out the window.

A policeman, of course.

My heart rate redoubled.

The space between two rapid heartbeats saw the death of everyone I cared about, one after another.

"Police," the cop said to me when he saw me in the window.

"Duh," I thought.

"Hello?" I asked.

"I'm afraid..." he began.

My heart rate somehow managed to double again.

"...that you have a loose horse," he finished.

It took me a second.

I mean, what did a horse have to do with someone I loved being dead? Why was he wasting my time telling me about a horse? Was he trying to soften the blow? Or had this horse somehow killed HatGirl, or LaptopGirl, or one of my sisters?

Also, if my heart beat its way out of my chest and started hopping around on the floor, would I be able to catch it before one of my cats did?

Like I said, it took me a second. But I eventually figured it out. Because I'm smart and stuff.

"Oh," I said. "That's not my horse. It belongs to my neighbor. His driveway is right next to mine."

"I see," said the cop. "The house behind yours? Okay, sorry to have bothered you, sir."

"No problem," I replied. "It could have been a lot worse."

I feel like I should write something before I go, so I guess I will. I'm doing this under duress, though.

I don't want to go. I have unfinished business here.

I'll feel better when I get there. I always do. Except when I don't.

This should work. I can do this. I can get my shit done, and still have some time for a reasonable Saturday night, should such an opportunity arise. And my flight doesn't leave until 11:35 tomorrow morning, so I can do the last-minute packing and stuff right before I leave.

Today, I've been doing laundry and dishes. I'm actually almost done with those things. Then I'll probably run a vacuum over my floors, and just make sure that everything is semi-tidy. I don't like coming home to a messy house.

Oh yeah, I've got to go to the store. I need cigarettes and batteries and deodorant. And maybe some cat food, I need to see how much is left in the current bag. Oh, and maybe some shaving cream.

Or maybe I won't bother to shave while I'm there. It's supposed to be a vacation, after all.

By this time tomorrow, I'll be at the airport, maybe even on the plane.

It's gotten so bad that HatGirl is actually rooting for me to leave. To move away, or at least to find work elsewhere for a while. To just get away from all this pain. No matter how much she would miss me, she still says I should leave.

"It would do you good," she says.

Wrong.

There is no getting away. Physically, sure. That would be fairly simple. But emotionally, not so much. This is where I belong. This is where I am, and this is where I'll stay, no matter how far away my body might happen to be. I could travel to the ends of the Earth, and it would do me no good at all, because I couldn't take my heart with me.

So we have a disagreement, HatGirl and I. Even though she's very smart, there are some things that she just doesn't get. This problem that I have, it's not going to be solved by running away. It's not a physical entity from which I can hide. Nope, this is something that, if it's ever going to get better, it's going to have to happen right here.

Not that I expect anything to get better. I fully expect that this is going to kill me eventually. But, at least here, I have a fighting chance. At least here, I can be strong and brave. At least here, I can stand my ground.

I look death in the eye, and it doesn't blink. I wait for the killing blow, and it doesn't come.

What is it waiting for?

So I went to the place yesterday. Did I write I was going there, or did I just tell RockGirl and HatGirl? Hmmm, looks like I didn't write about it here. I'm such a slacker. Get over it.

I wasn't going to go. I thought that maybe I was tired, so I was going to restrict my errands to stuff close to my house. Go to my bank, go to the store, pay my water bill, stuff like that. But then I noticed that I wasn't tired, so I went to the place. The Dodge dealership in Jeffersonville.

October 14th, also known as that really fucked-up day, started out when I broke the key to my Intrepid in half. No, I didn't do it on purpose, despite what you may have read in the tabloids. It was an accident. A stupid accident, but an accident nevertheless.

Anyway, this was the only key I had for that car. I needed a new key. I called the first Dodge dealership I could think of (Coyle) and asked them if they could cut me a key if they had the VIN. They said that they couldn't do it, but that Bales in Jeffersonville could.

Cool, right?

I drove my not-tired self to Bales yesterday. Immediately, of course, a swarm of salespeople erupted from the building. I waved them off and told them that I just needed the service department. I also noticed a lot of Jeeps for sale, so I emailed LaptopGirl to ask if she'd traded in her Jeep at Bales.

At the service desk things were a little fucked up. The guy took my Intrepid's registration (with the VIN) and went somewhere and did something. Then he came back and said that he could indeed make me a key, but that they didn't have any of the proper blanks. I asked if one could be ordered.

He went back and did some more stuff, and then returned and said that (a) he could order what he needed from somewhere, but (b) those blanks would be eleven dollars each, and (c) there was a minimum order of four. Oh yeah, and (d) cutting a new key from code would be eighteen dollars.

For some reason I didn't feel like spending over sixty dollars for a key. I dunno, maybe I'm crazy.

I told the dude that I'd check out some hardware stores and see if I could find a blank. And then that's what I did. The first place I went had the proper blank, and I bought one. Not for eleven dollars. Not even for five dollars.

Eighty-five cents.

Then I took the blank back to Bales and they charged me eighteen dollars to cut the key.

Still quite a racket they've got going there, but it was a lot better than sixty dollars would have been.

Then I spent some time wandering around the lot, evading the salespeople as well as I could, looking to see if LaptopGirl's old Jeep was there. It wasn't there. It was fun to look, though. I think I had some murky scheme to take a picture of myself with that Jeep and post it on facebook. I don't know why. Maybe it would make her love me. Maybe I was more tired than I'd thought.

Later, I got an email that she'd used a totally different dealership. I didn't bother going there.