I hesitate – now at the edge of uncertainty and self-preservation. For a second I'm confident that there is no way in heaven or hell that I will clear the gulf between the two ledges. I panic, break out in a leap before the runway at my feet expires. No going back now.

I sail silently between the two structures, deaf to the rushing wind that whistles around me. I could go on about the beauty of the view, the unbearable brightness of it all, the overwhelming sense of speed. I could let flow an unending gush of cliches about the lightness of the flight or pontificate about the perceived lack of gravity, but none of that applies at the moment. My blood freezes at the peak of my jump. My muscles tense, tightening themselves for the oncoming impact. The bottom drops out of my stomach as my heart pauses.

My arc winds down and, where there should be ground and gravel and halting, there is instead empty space and a sickening downward pull. I look up and I see that traitorous ledge move further and further away from me, mocking me with its stoic facade.

If only I hadn't panicked. If only I had taken that extra step. If only I could go back and change it all.

If only?

'Dear Mrs. N.'

The script is my own. The shaky composition betrays the writing implement, one of those disposable BIC ballpoint pens that my mom was so fond of stocking my backpack with. I haven't used one of those in years.

'This is a small token of appreciation from your Class of 1995 ... Thank you very much for your support. We wish you all the best. Don't forget about us!'

Hm.

The dedication is puzzling. I'm looking at my 8th grade yearbook and, instead of finding a modest assortment of autographs and well-wishes, I'm looking at a dedication written to my 6th grade teacher.

I remember signatures. I remember a 7th grader telling me to visit, to “be nice to all us Jr. High Schoolers” if I did. I remember phone numbers meekly offered, lifelines through distance and time. I didn't make that up. Did I?

Much like other here-unnamed members of the site, I've never been much of a gearhead. The thought of digging into a car to change out gummy oil or retune sparkplugs excites the Manlyparts of my gray matter, no doubt. But my family's auto maintenance motto has always been “take it to the mechanic.” And so, I spent the better part of 24 years with a kind of dignified respect for our four-wheeled friends.

I considered cars to be strictly utilitarian entities: Beasts of burden whose primary role was to transport a person (or a persons) from Point A to Point Q in as efficient a time as possible, with as little loss of life as able. They had bells and whistles, to be sure – power windows, tinted glass, moon/sun/noon roofs, cassette players – but those were creature comforts meant to ease your relationship with the thing, to make bearable the time spent traveling. The outside was largely irrelevant. So confident was I in this Substance First approach that my first-year college roommate nearly threw a Chilton's manual at me when I mentioned that BMWs were “ugly, overpriced, and boxy”. (They still are.)

As with most things in life, my girlfriend was all-too eager to show me the errors of my naive ways.

Gaming has always been the a priori core of my personality. I game, therefore I am. Lately I've been challenged by this credo, or perhaps I've been challenging it. "Why?" queries the little demon on my shoulder, nudging me knowingly. "What does it mean?” As these introspective flights tend to emerge from a moment of striking clarity, I can confidently say that the kick in my caboose was a mundane afternoon of Halo 3.

When my co-op buddy left our quaint little gun-toting party of two, I decided to venture out solo into the tepid sea of pubteams. I had already invested two hours playing, so what harm would another game or two do? I'd shoot some dudes, chug an energy drink, toss the devil horns over to my Phi Beta Zappa brahs, then move on to my regular affairs neatly and without consequence. What followed was an infuriating Sturm und Drang against four opponents who so ridiculously outclassed my team that I cursed Bungie for designing such a sadistic match system. These ubergamer-elect locked my team down completely, decimating us at every turn. Deducing that this was a no-win situation, two of my teammates promptly quit the match, leaving me and another shell-shocked pubber to face the humiliation of being target practice for this clan of Master Chieftains. This was not appealing. This was not fun. The match concluded, I promptly quit the game lobby, shut off my Xbox in disgust, and clomped upstairs to stew in my room.