Listening to: “To Be Surprised” – Sondre Lerche

Square one sucks. I am really fucking sick and tired of square one. It’s like, this lame stupid square that’s the first one, and I can’t get out of the damn thing. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.

Butbutbut I have two deadlines, and no time to wallow in self-pity. I wish it wasn’t so goddamn cold out, or I’d run away to New Hampshire and climb a mountain. That’d be nice.

OKOKOK done. Moving on. Next thing. Thundercats are go.

I’ve still got my eye on you, New York. See this eye? On YOU. Yeah. S’right.

Blargh. Methinks the food service industry will soon have me in its gaping maw once more.

…….

Anyways, look! My blog is snowing! Doesn’t that just fill you with Effusion and Christmas Cheer?

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Listening to: “The State I Am In” – Belle & Sebastian

So my one-act play, Thanksgiving, has officially been rejected by two theater conferences. I know, I know, only two. “But say, my friend,” you’ll say [you general you], “Tons of brilliant writers get rejected 30 gazijabillion times before they get accepted. And they’ve all gone on to have fabulously successful careers and dive in pools full of champagne and gigolos!”

“First of all, You,” I’ll reply, “A gazijabillion is not a real number, so I don’t trust your rational judgment outright.” *Takes drag from metaphorical cigarette* “Second of all, You, it is true that tons of brilliant writers get rejected a lot. But tons upon tons upon eons of pretty crappy writers get rejected a lot, too. The brilliant ones and the crappy ones have both got giant balls for continuing to submit their rejected stuff. But how do you know till you’ve been accepted if you’re shitty or a miracle? Or, worse, just totally mediocre? You see, You, how difficult it can be?” *Takes drag from non-metaphorical joint*

The point of that diatribe being, I don’t think I have the stones to keep on submitting Thanksgiving. It might be time to put my little Durangy baby to rest. ‘Course, this is the same thing I did a few years ago when my short story, Jellyfish, got rejected by two literary magazines. Two seems to be my magic number, eh?

And by magic, I mean poop.

Oh, moose balls. Time to pick myself up by the thong straps, or whatever.