It's 2 AM and I'm staring at my alarm clock. 2:01. 2:02. 2:03. I have to get up in six hours, and all I can think about is how no one ever says anything when tv kids grow five years in one season. I know I'd notice if that happened in my family.

When I don't have to wake up until noon, I can drift off right away. But when I know that I have less than eight hours, it's impossible to do anything other than lie there and wonder why I can't sleep. 2:05. Crap.

There are several stages of "I can't friggin sleep"� (known to most doctors as ICFS). The first is wondering why I'm so awake. I think of all the ways that I could be productive instead of wasting my time laying down. I could do the dishes. I have some email I haven't gotten to yet. Maybe I can write next week's column. So I sit up, but I'm too tired to do anything.

Once I'm up, I'm exhausted. I remember how comfortable my bed is. The dishes don't really need to be done now. And I can barely keep my head up to check my e-mail, let alone write a column. After wasting a few more minutes debating with myself ala Cameron Frye ("He'll keep calling me"¦"�), I go back to bed. Now it's 2:15. That was real productive.

I never understood why there are 24 hours in a day. We've obviously made some sort of mistake, since we lose a quarter of a day every year. And February having just 28 days is ridiculous. There are seven months with 31 days. Take two of those days and give them to February and then you've got five months with 31 and seven months with 30. And rearrange the whole thing so months with 30 days and months with 31 days alternate. Wouldn't that be easier to remember? These are the things I think about when I'm trying to sleep.

Certainly they had to have noticed Andy on Family Ties. That kid turned seven overnight. How could they miss that? And the Keatons were supposed to be good parents.

The next stage of ICFS is drifting into deep thought for a few minutes at a time. Deep thought patches are the worst because every time you snap out of one, you're as wide-awake as you were when you started. And it's frustrating to realize you just wasted four minutes trying to remember who you sat next to in sixth grade.

I sat next to a girl I had a crush on in sixth grade. Which was strange for me because it wasn't until halfway through sixth grade that I knew I actually liked girls. Maybe I knew it at the beginning of sixth grade, but didn't admit it until a few months later. 2:29. Crap.

It is now time for my patented head turn. I'll lie in one position for ten or fifteen minutes, and since it's not doing anything for me, I figure that turning in the opposite direction is the answer. Hmmm. Now I'm facing the wall instead of my desk. That's much better.

My biggest problem is that the room is pitch black so I can't even stare at the ceiling. I tried, but with the lights off it looks just like my desk. Or maybe it is my desk. I don't even know which way I'm facing anymore.

If I keep my eyes open long enough, they adjust to the light. There's a little glimmer across the room. Is that my laptop? Maybe the light from my printer? Did I leave my printer on? Man, that'll show up on my electric bill! Should I get up to turn it off? No, I'm too tired. Maybe if I just turn my head. What was that girl's name, anyway? 2:47. Ahhhhhh!

When I finally do fall asleep, I won't be able to wake up. The alarm goes off and I can't get out of bed. Some mornings, it hurts to wake up. Especially if I forget which way I'm facing.

Little Richie on Family Matters may have been the worst case of tv growth. Not only did he gain ten years in two months, he also hit puberty and started dating. Now there's a kid who started liking girls before sixth grade. Though he was probably 35 by the time he got there.

I don't know that I'm reaching the sleep point as it happens, but I slowly fade out of consciousness. This would be wonderful if I knew it was there - I can imagine that if you were conscious of sleep, it would feel wonderful. But I try not to let myself realize I am falling asleep, since the second I'm awake enough to realize anything, I'm too awake to fall asleep anymore. And that's another ten minutes of tired that I will never get back.

Maybe I should get up and write that column. If I could only find my desk.

Getting your first electric bill is a lot like getting circumcised. They're both rites of passage, you have no say over the amount you're giving up, and afterwards, you're left feeling cold-cocked.

Baby boys must be terrified when they're circumcised. They're not just getting hacked at down there - they have no way of knowing that this is the only time it will happen. They think, "Do I have to go through this every week?"� And it's even worse because babies don't have that much to spare. They take a look down, do some quick math, and wonder if they're going to turn into a girl by New Year's.

Electric bills whittle away at your bank account much the same way.

Rites of passage are something we all go through. There are financial rites, like owning your first piece of furniture, which is usually a mini-fridge that doubles as a nightstand. There are aged-based rites, like turning 21 and losing your appetite for drinking a few months later. And then there are the cultural rites, like getting your driver's license so that your parents aren't driving you to, well, another rite of passage.

The first time you own a piece of furniture is nice, since no one will yell at you if you break it. Turning 21 and giving your fake ID to someone who doesn't mind saying they're 28 is a great feeling. And getting your driver's license is immensely liberating, or so I've been told (yeah New York upbringing).

But then there are things like that electric bill. And though getting the bill is much more comfortable than circumcision, I don't have to like it.

Rent is supposed to cover your cost of living in a room. And it does. But if you want that room heated, hooboy are they going to charge you. So much that you'll start saying "hooboy."� And it's not just for heat. When you hand someone that check for $1400 (yeah New York upbringing) you should ask exactly what it's buying you. Most of the time, you are renting a proverbial tuxedo without getting the shoes, shirt, bow tie, or that funny looking girdle guys have to wear.

Sometimes the rent covers water. That's a trick - water is the cheapest of all the hidden charges. Since you can hear it running, you hardly ever leave it on unnecessarily. I've tried several times, but I still can't hear the light in my closet. They don't put lights in closets so you can see stuff better. That light is in your closet so you can pay the electric company ten bucks every time you forget to turn it off.

During the winter, your electric bill can get very high if you've got to heat the place. Not because you use more electricity, but because everyone uses more electricity. There are a finite number of closet lights in the world, and when everyone tries to turn theirs on at once, it gets much more expensive. I'm not sure if that's how it actually works, but when I asked, all my electric company told me was "˜pay us or we cut the power.'

Your first paycheck is one of the biggest rites of passage, and the only way to afford paying for electricity. This usually happens anywhere between 14 and 21 years old, and comes exactly five years after puberty hits. If a girl started growing breasts when she was nine, she'll be able to find a job early. If a guy started noticing girls' breasts when he was nine, he'll have to find a job early - girls with breasts are expensive. But your first paycheck will disappoint you, because it introduces you to the most common rite of all: taxes. Which are also what make electricity so damned expensive.

I had to learn all of this electricity stuff because I live on my own now. So I walk around all day, remembering to shut off all of the lights. I laugh at myself for not understanding why my grandmother used to make me shut lights in rooms I wasn't using. I should have let her train me. It would have saved me at least ten bucks by now.

There are some good rites of passage that college graduates have to look forward too. Like business cards. The first time you get your own business cards, you are very excited. And it's not because you've become big and important, because you haven't. Most often, your first card says something like "˜Joe Schlabotnik, Lackey to Someone Making Much More Money Than Me.' But you're excited because now when you meet people, you don't have to remind them of your name before you leave. You can just give them your card and walk away. Which is almost as dorky as running around shutting off all your lights.

Pigeons have become my enemy. I don't think they know this yet, so I at least still have the element of surprise.

I used to like pigeons. When I was a kid, I would love to see the old crazy ladies feed them in the park. I don't know for sure if the ladies were crazy, though I'm sure they were old. Perhaps they were just lonely and kindhearted, like the woman in "Home Alone 2."� But more than likely, anyone who sits in a park all day crumbling three loaves of bread for flying rats while the birds soil the bench around her could use a few lessons in "society."�

So how did my love affair with pigeons devolve into hatred? Actually, having a love affair with a pigeon would be much crazier than being that woman in the park. Maybe that's why she was luring so many pigeons to sit next to her. "Hey baby, there's more bread where that came from."� Okay, now even I've lost me.

I started hating pigeons my junior year of college. (My second junior year, for those keeping score). I had to walk through the northeast corner of Amsterdam and 110th street on my way to class. I'm not sure if you are familiar with that corner of New York, but it has two things on it: bread and pigeons. Well, three things, because after the pigeons finish the bread, they've got to put it somewhere.

So as I trudged around pigeons and bread and pigeoned-bread, I was careful never to step in, or on, anything I shouldn't. But this process took two full minutes out of my day, every day. It is not easy to walk through a group of 100 pigeons without causing any damage to them or your shoes.

Each day, I got more and more annoyed at the birds. My anger was probably misdirected, since someone must have put the bread there. But never being witness to this pigeon-lover, I had no choice but to channel my anger towards the 20th century's answer to the third plague. Vermin, not frogs - that was the second plague, and they can be kind of cute if they're small enough.

However, I moved soon after, and thus spent about a year with little pigeon contact. I was able to slowly forgive them, after lots of therapy and intermittent episodes of Sally Jessie Rafael. Until now.

My intent was simply to sit in Boston Common and write a column. I figured that it was a beautiful day - sunny, 72 degrees, and I had little to no responsibility, other than 800 words about whatever I chose. So I began to write, but I couldn't get past the first line. The pigeons wouldn't let me.

Realistically, they probably didn't know what line I was on. Most pigeons can't read. But it didn't even matter to them. Selfish jerks.

I didn't notice the birds at first. They were huddled quiet in a corner, preparing for the attack. And suddenly, the woosh of wings was all around me. Controlled by a six-year-old general barking orders from the rear, an army of pigeons scattered through the park. One narrowly missed my head. Another almost clipped my shoulder. A third looked at me funny as he whizzed by. It was bedlam.

I wondered how they mobilized so quickly. And if they ever sent carrier squirrels to relay their messages.

To avoid further confrontation (war just leads to more war), I calmly packed up my stuff and retreated to another part of the park. I found a neat little electrical shed as a backrest, and I began writing again. Until I heard the shrill shrieks of their captain, and saw the second wave.

This one was more massive than the first. More than 200 pigeons flew everywhere, narrowly missing people wherever they went. I thought of that picture of Fabio from a few years ago when he got whacked in the face by a bird as he was riding a roller coaster. After laughing for a few seconds, I thought of how horrible it would be to talk like Fabio. And to get whacked in the face with a bird. So I did the only thing I could - I put my hands over my head and ducked until it was all over. And I don't know how or why, but thankfully, I was spared.

Perhaps I should be kinder towards the pigeons, since they were probably just following orders. But until I know for sure, they are my sworn enemy, and I will do all I can to protect myself from their ungodly reign of terror.

And their poop.

Since I'm moving to Boston this weekend, this might be the last column I write from New York. I figured I'd use it to say thanks to the city that's given me life, an identity, an appreciation for culture, and a scorching case of herpes.

I don't really have herpes. But that's only because I'm careful on the subway.

New York is, was, and always will be one of the dirtiest cities in America. Its citizens are rude, depraved, and egotistical, and constantly remind their non-New York friends of their inherent superiority. Especially if their friends are from Jersey.

Earlier this year, New Yorkers were faced with the most adversity they'd seen since that horrible stretch from 1991-1993 when they actually didn't have a major sports team with a championship. And for a while, everyone in the city shared a special "we-shall-overcome"� bond, and actually smiled when they passed each other. That lasted three weeks. By October, we'd fallen back into the "up-yours"� swing of things that define us as a city.

Last week, a female friend from out of town passed some guy while jogging around the Central Park reservoir, so she instinctively said "hi."� A mile later, he had caught up to her, out of breath, and asked for her number. She explained that while he was 41, she was 20, and thus it would be a bad idea for them to date. So he said they didn't have to "date,"� they could just go to his place. This is why people do not say hi to each other in New York.

I've traveled a lot in the last few years, and seen most major cities in America. And despite most Big Appler's claims to the contrary, almost all of them have something that New York doesn't.

Atlanta, for instance, has roads. It also has thirty billion cars on each road, so going anywhere takes three years. But you can use your time in the car to contemplate life and come to a higher understanding of the universe.

Chicago has lovely fall weather. In August.

Las Vegas lets you do exactly 27 things that are both enjoyable and illegal anywhere else. One of them is losing all of the money you've ever thought you had, and some you hadn't thought of yet. Another is hookers.

Philadelphia makes anyone from out of town feel safe instantly. In comparison to being in Philadelphia.

San Antonio is one of the better cities I've been to. The bars were packed with people, my cabbie talked to me about basketball, and strangers carried on conversations on the street. And I tanned just walking to the car.

Baltimore's Inner Harbor is absolutely beautiful. Though it is unfortunate that the usable part of the city is only half a mile long.

Cleveland has a lovely airport.

Los Angeles has one of the greatest views I've ever seen. If you go to some of the Hollywood hills, looking down at the valley is incredible. And when the smog rolls in, it envelops everything, giving it that cool horror movie look.

Milwaukee has a ton of food. Everywhere. And everything is either fried, made of cheese, or comes with beer. The last day I was there, I had beer battered fried cheese. My small intestine has been on strike ever since.

New Orleans is always a party. Everyone is drunk, no one can stand up straight, and you should really try to leave before the cops get there.

But for all my time spent in other cities, I've never been in one for longer than a week. It is possible that I could move somewhere else and fall in love with that city, like I did with New York. Hell - if I could love this seventh ring of hell, I could learn to love anything.

But just when I was starting to contemplate staying here, I took the subway. The past few days, I've seen people shove each other out of the way for a seat, block the doors so that they could get a little more elbowroom (using it, of course, to elbow people) and beg for change while they count up the bills in their paper cup. I've taken the subway more than a thousand times, and I admit that I am sick of all of the boorish behavior. And the herpes.

So I say goodbye, New York. Goodbye to your $8 beers and your suggested donations at museums that are always mandatory. Goodbye to the city where downtown is downtown, uptown is midtown, and midtown is a different place depending on who you ask. Goodbye to the delivery guys who don't have change, to the people who wear black every day of the summer, and to the cabbies who have never once tried to speak English. Goodbye, New York. Goodbye to it all.

I'm going to miss you.