How awfully wrenching for me. And the node title is lightly misspelled.

As a baby noder/cancer monkey, I tried to write a review for The Passion of the Christ. My first w/u. I thought it would be harmless and besides, I felt strongly about it. I thought that the thing I planned to write was pretty good. I even did a little outline on paper.

Tappeta tap tap tap and out the words poured, in rushes and dribbles and dry spells the way it does when you're determined to write something balanced and thoughtful. Thing was, it was March and the keyboard was cold and my stoma was belching fire and my fingers hurt every time they hit the keys. A bit of a harsh journey for me, but the writing of the review distracted me. For a time, I was a mind in contact with other minds. No one would see the eyelashes falling out and pity me. No one would hear the comically loud farting from just exactly where it wasn't supposed to come. They would just read my thoughts expressed and either like or dislike.

Thing was, I clicked a mouse when I should have left it alone and about two lines of the two pages I typed posted. It was promptly nuked.

Now, I probably took that much harder than I should have, but really, when you're enduring routine poisonings and talk to no one but people who ask you sadly and tenderly how you are, things lose their perspective. A few people made helpful suggestions such as "read the FAQ and the Quick Start" (which I had) and I felt like each line was a punch in the stomach because they all sounded like "you are not good enough to be one of us". And that was a little more than I could take at the time.

More than a little more. That was the catalyst that precipitated the night of "Why did God take away my baby and turn me into a Circus Freak? What have I done that was so horribly wrong that I deserve to shit through a hole in my side?" Sung to the music of howling wet snotty sobs.

But the story has a happy ending. Several months later, Yclept went and suggested I do a little write up for a quest. Because it was representing the homeland of my best beloved, I threw my heart into it. Wow, the response. The praise. I danced on moonbeams for days. It was a nice thing to do with my time, too, because I was recovering from my colostomy reversal. No more helpless unintentional flatulence and all this warm fuzziness from the glowing monitor. You couldn't have found more happiness in a mudpuddle of nursing piglets.

This new review of The Passion of the Christ, which has also garnered much praise, just reminded me that my first impressions of This Cosa Nostra were... bipolar. Either I was enduring slings and arrows or I was trumpeted. Nothing in between.

Incidentally, the Devil figure is the real enemy of the Christ, and the villain of the piece. He is supposed to be trying to convince Christ of the futility of his suffering, and so to prevent the sacrifice that would redeem man. Men will die and be eaten by worms, the Devil is saying. Mankind is ugly. In short, you endure pain, you bleed and you die, O Christ-only-begotten-son, for this foul ugly maggot bait. Look upon your work, Almighty, and despair.

And that was the important thing. He didn't despair.

I shouldn't have, either.