If I could scream it would sound like this.

There is only one thing worse than extreme disappointment: Fake relief.

Let me explain.

My friend Christina agreed yesterday to let me move in with her. We spoke about it for hours, I brought up all the possible issues, and we smoothed things over and settled that I would move in the next day, that day being today. You cannot imagine the weight that fell from my shoulders like foliage at the end of November. I couldn't believe how blessed I was.

Then I speak to her this afternoon. She is having second thoughts. No. She's changed her mind.

A full twenty four hours of that weight being lifted, of that feeling like God's taking care of me, it's all gonna be all right, dry your tears, it always works out. Then WHAMMMMMMMMMM.

It's hardly that easy. It is not that easy in this case.

I'm back to screwed square one, and now and only now do I feel that sick ache that I probably should have felt from the beginning.

Now, though this hit was particularly crippling, not enough to keep me down for the count.

Like endorphins, or andrenaline, i've got an endless supply of optimism-- my greatest saviour and worst vice. This is my one insurance against the blows that keep on comin', so...

Is that all you've got?

C'mon, life... gimmie your best shot.

I can take it.