Raise your hand if you always suspected that the Friendly Neighborhood Sports Columnist is steered through life by the voices in his head.

Hey, I am what I am. And what I am by birth and by reluctant choice is a willing dupe of the Boston Red Sox. Which means the voices get louder, stronger and completely unsynchronized after the all-star break.

The voice of childlike faith continually hammers home the point, however misguided, that the Sox can do no wrong. No matter what atrocities the Oakland Athletics may unleash upon Sox Nation this weekend, it tells me that as long as we’re still blessed with Big Schill, Big Papi and Manny being Manny, life is good.

Then the voice of reality chimes in, hurling throaty obscenities with the precision of a heavy metal vocalist. Forget the glass being half-empty or half-full. This menace to my mental health drains the glass before smashing it to smithereens with a Louisville Slugger. He’s ready to award the Yankees another American League East title, mail the White Sox the wild card and fire Terry Francona, all in one fluid motion.

And you thought a little humidity made it impossible to sleep.

Check out these unedited excerpts from the ongoing turf war in one Red Sox sympathizer’s skull. For the purposes of this transcript, we’ll call my blabbering friends Destiny and Doom. It’s like having a blog on the brain. Enjoy the ride.

Doom: Thou fool! Curse Ted Williams and die already. Dude, your pitching staff gave up four hits to Milton Bradley on Friday night. Kind of a delicious irony there, since they would have been better off hanging out in the bullpen playing Twister.

Destiny: Sinner! You’ve obviously forgotten how we stumbled out of the break two years ago until Jason Varitek rearranged A-Rod’s dental work. That story had a happy ending.

Doom: Happy ending? That story had pitching. That story had Curt Schilling’s bloody sock. That story had Keith Foulke able to locate his 72 mph fastball. That story had Pedro and D-Lowe pitching with so much authority that I could’ve sworn Dan Duquette was perched on their shoulders, taunting them about being in the twilight of their careers. And where are they now? Your friends have abandoned you. Give up gracefully.

Destiny: Yeah, OK, give up. That’s a stroke of genius. Pardon me while I laugh my admittedly biased butt off for a minute and flip over a page or two to the standings. Oh, that’s right: We’re in first place. Think I’ll keep the concession speech in my pocket if it’s all the same to you.

Doom: Maybe you could postpone watching “Fever Pitch” for the 53rd time and take an honest look at those standings. We’re talking a game, a game-and-a-half lead with the Evil Empire lurking. That’s the equivalent of one day-night doubleheader with Kyle Snyder and David Pauley on the mound.

Destiny: I’ll take my chances with Snyder, Pauley, Jason Johnson, Moe, Larry and Curly against Melky Cabrera and Aaron Guiel, thank you very much. It’s hard to hit a home run in the bottom of the ninth when you’re wearing a splint.

Doom: The scary thing is that you seriously believe that. I’m eagerly awaiting that look of utter constipation on your face when Gary Sheffield and Hideki Matsui pull a Willis Reed and come running through the tunnel on the next-to-last day of August. Tell me your 39-going-on-60 pitching ace Schilling, his gopher ball-giving understudy Josh Beckett and the rest of the patchwork staff have a prayer against that batting order when it’s reunited.

Destiny: You’re one to be making fun of decrepit has-beens. Other than Ricky Williams, I can’t think of an athlete outside the Yankees clubhouse whose joints have given him more trouble. Tell your guys to drink their Geritol, we’ll drink our Sam Adams, and let’s see who comes out on top. As far as pitching goes, don’t worry: We’ll be making a big trade any day now.

Doom: A trade. Sure. Hello, you won the World Series two years ago, and you have a pretty-boy GM who’s never photographed without a cell phone stuck to his head. The only trade offer you’re going to hear is, “Hey, we’ll send you Kerry Wood and his orthopedic surgeon for Jonathan Papelbon, Craig Hansen, Kevin Youkilis, Doug Mirabelli, Jon Lester, a shoebox full of 1975 Topps baseball cards and a player to be named later.” Let me know how that works out for you.

Destiny: Are you quite finished?

Doom: Not even close. And what about your lineup? Go ahead, throw Manny and Papi at me til you’re blue in the face, but tell me who’s going to protect them in that order, come September. Coco Crisp? The guy missed the first six weeks of the season with a split fingernail. Or maybe Captain Varitek? Yikes, the way he’s hitting this year, I’d swear he’s hired Rich Gedman as a private instructor.

Destiny: Go ahead, yuk it up. We’ve got Mike Lowell serving up more doubles than a post-game bartender at the Cask and Flagon. Mark Loretta is having a vintage Moneyball year. And anything Alex Gonzalez does with the bat is a bonus.

Doom: Well, at least you got the last part right. Gonzalez would have made U.L. Washington look like Derek Jeter at the plate. And I have a sneaking suspicion you’ll see that 3B with all the 2Bs return to his earlier post-supplement testing form in the second half.

Destiny: Jason (cough, cough) Giambi. You’re just jealous that the Yankees traded away Lowell once upon a time. See you in October.

Doom: Yeah, see you in October while wearing my Kirk Gibson and Keith Hernandez retro jerseys and watching the Mets tackle the Tigers in a Turn Back The Clock World Series. Maybe we could slap some Run-D.M.C. or Quiet Riot on the turntable for old time’s sake.

Destiny: You are such a jerk.

Kalle Oakes is a staff writer. His e-mail is [email protected].