Today is trying its very best to make me go emo. It already made me cry once, the big bully–that would be this morning, when I received a rejection e-mail for “Mamie’s Pie Shop.” I like to think that if I was getting proper sleep and not hormonal and suffering cramps I’d have taken it better. I’m probably wrong, because the truth is that I’m a big ol’ thin-skinned wuss-bag. But I still like to think it.
Also, I don’t like my hair. That’s not making me emo, specifically–I really am not THAT shallow, I promise–but I’ve been gathering pics of possible future ‘dos to take with me to a stylist. Somewhere out there, floating aimlessly around the internets, is a picture of me from way back during the Chicago Buffycon in ’03 in which I had pretty good hair; but when I went searching for it all I found were old ghosts that want me to put on thick kohl eyeliner and cut myself and write bad, self-involved poetry using my own blood as the ink and then make a video of myself reading it that I can post on YouTube for the world to share my pain and try to understand the fathomless depths of my blackened soul. Or possibly just to make me cry again. Sniffle.
I need some Pamprin and a hug. And lots and lots of sleep. I ate a spoonful of peanut butter a while ago, and that made me feel a little better, until it made me want to beat myself up for using food for comfort, but I didn’t, because I mean, come on. It’s just one spoonful. It’s not like I shoved three consecutive Reese’s Pumpkins in my mouth (that was last night, and dad-gum, those things are yummy).
I’m going to spend an hour cleaning off my desk and making things orderly (to regain my sense of control, obvs), and then I’m going to edit a new scene that I wrote the other day for THF and post it for the Beautiful Beta Babes. And them I’m going to try to finish a short story I started for this before I research other markets for “Mamie’s.” And by the end of this week, I’m going to nail down a posting schedule for , and start gearing up for the launch. All because if I stay busy, I won’t have time to convince myself that one person deciding my story’s not right for their web site must mean that I’m not good enough and will only ever be a mediocre hack. Because that’s what you do when rejection happens: you pick yourself up and get back on the bike and pedal as fast and hard as you can.