And God said: 'Let there be light,' but the city of Laramie laughed

Behold, dear readers, the glorious invention that is the streetlight. Observe its tall, slender, light-giving being, and give thanks.

That is, of course, unless you live in an area of Laramie where streetlights are as rare as ... well, something really, really rare.

Streetlights in Laramie are a sparsely doled-out commodity, and the ones that exist are reportedly on timers, plunging drivers, cyclists and pedestrians into utter darkness as they approach the lights. The city argues that these timers helps them save money, but I think there's really some jerk waiting to flip a switch and laugh as the pedestrians and cyclists blindly stumble their way along the darkened street and the drivers try to not hit something that may or may not be darting out into the now-unlit street.

The city has clearly already scrimped and saved in their adamant refusal to erect streetlights at logical intervals throughout town. The few existing lights need to be on timers, too?

I've been told that the light behind my building is neither owned nor controlled by the city, but I think the same jerk is in charge of the "timer."

At about 1 in the morning, as I'm hauling my trash out and have finally convinced myself that a skunk is not going to get me and that there are no rapists lurking in the alley, as I'm halfway across the dimly lit back parking lot - THE LIGHT GOES OUT!

Aside from scaring the peewadley out of me (I really, really wanted to use "peewadley" in a post — it used to be one of my mom's favorite words), it also temporarily blinds me, not only to my path to the Dumpster, but also to the hundreds of skunks, rabid foxes, wild dogs, serial killers and would-be rapists that I'm certain are at that moment rushing into my tiny parking lot. From the middle of the pitch-black lot, I chuck my little bag of trash, lobbing it over the cars that stand in my blinded way and praying that the lid on the Dumpster is open. And that my trash doesn't land on someone's windshield.

And then I turn and run, accomplishing Olympic-quality hurdles to get up the doorstep and into the brightly lit stairwell of my building.

Mid-hurdle, though — THE LIGHT COMES BACK ON! There are no skunks (or other wild animals); no long-haired, grizzled, maniacal rapists; no knife-wielding serial killers swarming the parking lot. Just the nieghbors' black-and-white cat, looking at me like I'm the craziest human he's ever seen. And maybe I am. But I'm getting really good at chucking those bags of trash.