have a confession to make: Late at night, in the privacy of my home, I've found myself carefully dicing sheets of paper into tiny pieces of chad.
Oh, I know, I know. How could you? Well, that's not all. I've pulled out my collection of souvenir baseball All-Star ballots and held them up to the light. I've memorized the names of every judge in the 11th Circuit Court of Appeals. For God's sake, I think I have a thing for Katherine Harris.
It's bad. I'm hooked. There was a while when I thought George W. Bush and Al Gore were acting like jackals and jackasses. Now I don't particularly care.
I don't care that we don't have a president. I don't care if we ever have a president. With the economy this strong and Russia this weak, do we really need one? Please let this battle continue forever.
I have CNN constantly on my newly purchased WatchMan. I've started wearing cowboy boots with my suits, just like James Baker. I've started genuflecting to a Yoda in hopes it will bring me closer to Warren Christopher.
Yesterday, I sent a check to West Palm Beach to help the protesters maintain their courageous vigil at the County Government Center.
I call Bush supporters and warn them, ''They're trying to steal the election from us! They don't understand the man's brilliance and all the barriers he's overcome in his hardscrabble life.''
I call Gore supporters and tell them, ''They're trying to block the will of the voters! They don't understand the connection the vice president has made with the entire nation.''
I've checked to see if there is a special deadline for space shuttle astronauts who have requested absentee ballots. I've called officials in Spain to see if there is precedence for a hand recount from when Florida was still one of their colonies.
I have a flow chart on my desk for the critical counties and the most recent developments in the question over hand counts. They're doing one, they're not. They've gathered at the county building. They've been dismissed for lunch. The agony of it all.
''BULLETIN,'' the Reuters wire screams at me as I write these very words. ''NEWSALERT,'' AP says. Oh, no, it can't be. ''Florida high court says `no impediment' to hand recounts.'' There has never, ever been a development like this. Quick, get Alan Dershowitz to see what it all means.
I am on high alert for other developments. Will the Pirates of the Caribbean complain that Magic Kingdom poll workers discarded their ballots because they were damp? Will the Republicans learn that Billy Daley's late father is registered to vote in Volusia County? Will the Golden Girls come out of retirement and claim they couldn't understand the ballot?
I place calls to Tom Brokaw, Peter Jennings, and Dan Rather, thanking them for working well into every crucial night.
I have mapped mail routes from all warships and foreign countries to Florida. Will ballots be stalled at a distribution center in Memphis? Will they arrive a day late and a vote short? Is the postal system in Israel all it's cracked up to be?
I kneel every day at a makeshift shrine in my living room to that wonderful, charismatic leader, Ralph Nader, thanking him for all he's done.
And, most important, I scratch out an endgame. Here's what I fear - hope? - the most: It's in the US Supreme Court on Jan. 19, the eve of the inauguration. Bush is winning by one vote. Baker is saying the Republican mandate is clear. Gore, fresh out of other legal options, files papers in divorce court.
The justices have to determine if one piece of hanging chad on one ballot cast in Miami-Dade County has any special significance. Each of them holds it up to the light.
The chad falls and lands on their desk like silent thunder. They look at each other in confusion. And the winner is?
Brian McGrory's e-mail address is mcgrory@globe.com.
