I think I'll blame the hormones.

Last night, at almost eight, I realized that the VMAs were about to start and that I had to change the channel immediately.

When the back of Britney's head appeared on my television, my heart skipped a beat. Because, while I may have told my mother that the purpose of this televisual experience was to see just how far the downward spiral had descended, in my heart I was hoping that Britney would be triumphant in her return.

When she turned around and smiled, I thought for a moment that everything was going to be alright. I thought I saw a mischievous gleam in her eye.

I was, sadly, hallucinating.

It was bad. And while I don't care for the song itself, it was mostly bad because she seemed to have forgotten that this was the actual performance and not a dress rehearsal. The dancing was bad, the lip-synching was bad, my God, even the walking was bad. I actually began to wonder if she might be sedated. What's worse is that I think a simple change in attitude (think acutal performance versus walk-through in sweats) might have made the performance, if not a vindicating breakout, at least a respectable comeback attempt.

In recent years, I have been convinced that Britney just needed a hug. And, truthfully, I still want to cling to that notion. But when you disown everyone in your life who offers a dissenting opinion, do you know who you are? Michael Jackson. Someone with no one to reflect the truth back to you.

I woke up at 4am this morning and couldn't fall back to sleep. And while I think it was mostly the regular money and time worries that always accompany (my) pregnancies, I have to wonder if a little bit of it wasn't shattered adolescent hopes.