Wow, after reading through all of this "Darrah" horseshit... I'm really beginning to form a demented picture in my mind's eye. A glimpse maybe, of a life inspired by that of Travis Bickle...? I vision a cramped one room apartment, somewhere on the seedy side of town. Maybe the lights are slung real low and the shadows paint faceless, blackened, portraits of demons across her four-walled empire. An empty bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 stinks up the carpet where it spilled the night before. Maybe in the background, the song "Something I Can Never Have", or "Hurt" sings her a soft lullaby as she feverishly attempts comprehension of the day's many "one" event. Maybe her eyes gaze outward - through the smoke-stained glass of her single cracked window. But she never moves from her perch. Never.

She is a woman in waiting. Waiting for a dream. A moment of clarity in a room much too noisy with the silence of loneliness. She wants to fit in. She has ALL the gossip sites placed in her favorites. She wants to be the life of the party, but somehow can't quite understand the concept of shoelaces.

So she writes. Her dementia is a monster of blissful creativity.

…and then XPT logs on. And another bullet is loaded into her gun.

"Maybe this time…. Just maybe…"