"The Tears Dry On Their Own" -Amy Winehouse

Dear Diary,

If feelings are the weather forecast of life, then my soul is currently turbulent with a chance of sunshine.

I am not a religious person by any means, but if Jesus Christ himself came back in human form I'm sure he and I would have more similarities than differences, although I don't think I would be able to have sex with him (the chance to yell his name in a literal sense would be tempting, however).

My tears have had their sincerity questioned, mocked behind my back. My feelings misunderstood as a prima donna's manipulative strategem. It makes me feel like I'm in high school again, as if life is a continuous struggle to survive but not live. I think back to the "Footsteps in the Sand" parable, about how one of Christ's followers only saw one pair of footprints during his tryingest times and Jesus had to explain that it was because he was being carried by the Lord. I did the same thing with Joey Matthews and John Morrison in MNM, and like Jesus, I have been martyred back into the realm of Smackdown.

Between now and my last tawdry escapade with John Morrison, he has grown as a man and as a worker. I feel a kinship with him that could only have been cultivated through the kismet of destiny. It was this kinship that had me relieved as well as joyful that he is back with me underneath the blue lights, the most incendiary color a flame can be. I had relentlessly hit the F5 button on WWE.com's supplemental draft updates to make sure it was not a hoax but a confirmation of fate that one day he and I would return on the same brand and continue a love that leaves no sexual positions undiscovered.

Sure, Dave's love was one of unbridled passion and maturity but it wasn't without its negatives. He was Ibiza and I am LA and no matter how similar we were there was always a figurative ocean between us. Staring at his belly-button tattoo was like staring into shallow water, just enough depth to take a dip but never enough to satiate my heart. It is a love that I will hold onto. But with John, this is the real deal. He wouldn't be with me for politics because I am the Sham-Wow for the puddles of haterade that surround me. He loves me for me and the way my vagina goes hyphy.

Smackdown is what I'll make of it not what they expect of me. I will be the greatest Women's champion for a large Mexican audience, for John Morrison, and above anyone else -- for me.

xoxo,
Melina

Notes from the Diva Underground

Dear Diary,

I write this entry with Rorschach-test facepaint, inkblots culled from my eyeliner earlier tonight after crying in the center of the ring. My worse fears have certainly come to reality as I have now been drafted by Smackdown. No longer am I to do the splits upon entering the ring underneath the sultry red lights of RAW but am back to being underneath the pale-blue lights of Smackdown, my thighs illuminated under the color of raindrops -- how fitting.
I am backstage right now, wondering when the next time I will hear Lillian Garcia sing the national anthem, her dulcet vibrato comforting me like a comforter mattress.
So much has been running through my mind as of late, what with Dave Batista back in the fold. The conspiracy theorist in me was sure it was a strategic move by him to officially render our relationship officially null and void. Perhaps if this were true it is for the better; this topic I have discussed with my RAW sisters at length, conversations that I am already wistfully nostalgic of.
For some reason I tend to forget the awkwardness of Dave's half-erect penis in my mouth as I stared at his wrinkled scrotum until it shaped into the Shroud of Turin and think back to the days when he and I would share a knowing glance when Jim Ross was unaware of the drool on the corner of the droopier side of his mouth. Oh Jim Ross! To watch him look at me as if he was imagining I was sitting on his face makes me squirm with revulsion and now I am back with him on Smackdown.

He was backstage tonight, cursing Heath Ledger.

"Fuck Heath Ledger," he said. "At least the Guerrero family had the intestinal fortitude to apologize to us for Eddie. I did not hear of a goddamn apology given to Christopher Nolan."

Heartless prick JR is, but at the same time I find myself nodding at his insight.

One day I will look on this night with dried eyes, me and Lillian re-uniting and sharing beauty tips. I'm sure I will get over this, but tonight I shall mourn this sea change. I shall look at my days on the RAW brand as a turning point in my career for Sherri Martel did not drop a single tear when she managed Harlem Heat. I must look up to her and see how the hand of fate can work in my favor as well.

xoxo,
Melina