Mercy Please! It’s playoff time.

As of late, my life includes little suspense. The next silicone blonde to get the axe on the bachelor or the vegetables rotting at the bottom of my fridge haven’t exactly kept my nights restless. Then playoff baseball started. Derek Jeter tagged up in the 12th and Rafael Furcal sent an 11th inning rocket over the Turner Field fence and suddenly my life has become a montage of late-inning rallies, timely home runs and hanging curveballs.

It’s been an adjustment. Trembling hands, unpredictable moods and sleeplessness are just a few in a laundry list of symptoms. If there were only a patch, pill or gum to soften the withdrawal, I could kick my addiction to boredom and fully enjoy the infinitely unpredictable playoffs.

But yet, it’s been too long since Aaron Boone sent a soft Tim Wakefield knuckler into the bleachers in Yankee Stadium and Josh Beckett was invincible.

Simply put, the difference between playoff baseball and regular season baseball is 2,389 games. The regular season is a routine, predictable and peaceful. It’s like Florida from October to July. There are a few rainy hours here and there, but mostly it’s just sunny days on the beach reading the latest John Grisham case.

The playoffs have hit and now it’s hurricane season.

It’s everywhere: in my office, in my car, in my living room. I can’t hide from it. I can’t even board up the windows and run to safety.

I wish I were strong enough to internalize my angst, but, from Ron Gardenhire to Pedro Martinez and Brad Lidge, I’ve found myself screaming obscenities at people I don’t even know.

I try to remind myself I’m not a victim, I have control over my own destiny. Then extra-innings hit and a beer has found my fingers, with a bag of peanuts not so far behind.

Worst of all, it won’t end anytime soon. A Yankees/Red Sox series looms and all I can hope for is a few blowouts to ease the pain.

For now, I just have to keep reminding myself that a Manny Ramirez sac fly doesn’t determine whether the sun will rise. Reggie Sanders can catch a Jeff Weaver fastball in the wrist and California won’t break free and sink to the bottom of the sea.

The baseball playoffs are a time to remember our own mortality. Everything’s temporary, not even a blip on history’s radar, even if it seems like Derek Jeter’s next clutch single could reverse the rotation of the earth.

Maybe that’s just wishful thinking, optimism for the obsessed. Deep down, I know Vlad Guerrero is going to take a Curt Schilling fastball deep to left, my feet will leave the floor, my heart will skip a beat, I’ll spray peanuts on the TV screen in exasperation and sink to my knees as Manny hauls it in. It’s some sort of grotesque ballet, but for one month every year, it’s all mine.