The disappointment is fierce. The level of upset has crested. I transformed myself into an insomniac last night/early this morning in order to add to my newest venture of possible public humiliation...and to my dismay, everything I had written out was never published. I did, in fact, hit the "publish" key, as most rationally thinking human beings would have done, but for some reason, the cyber gods of prose decided that I was unworthy of posting at that exact moment in time. Do I even remember 1/10 of what I had written out? Hell no. Does that anger me? Am I mad? Yes...hella mad.

Disappointed above all else. Kind of like the disappointment Pauly Shore must have felt when they passed him over for the Keanu Reeves role in "Speed." Or the disappointment Mili must have felt when he realized that, even with Vanilli, he still wasn't anything. Or the agitation Anna Nicole Smith felt upon the 50th attempt to pronounce the word "the."

But I have picked myself back up, and no...no therapy was needed in this instance...and have returned to begin again...and with a question is how I will start:

Why are people afraid of honesty?

I am going to try and figure that one out while trying to conquer it myself...if someone can't be real in a setting like this, how can they be real at all? Hmmm...how many people am I going to piss off with this number? And you know what? If I wasn't a devious little prick, I might actually care.

Adios.

An obsessive compulsive signs onto the net, checks out this cool new site on the word of a friend, all the while thinking of the great days of yore, of sitting on a couch across from a balding pseudo-shrink whose questions are danced around with the grit and talent of a Michael Flatley groupie...unleashes a ridiculous series of words all leading to the concluding statement that has nothing to do with the previous....THIS IS A TEST.