So, you know that moment when you sit at your desk, couch, Polish sausage making station and you decide – “Hey, I think it’s time.” And you write. And write. Get the gall to tell your job to leave you alone and walk out the door. Those sausages smell good, be they made of meat, tofu, children’s tears… And you’re feeling pretty damn decent about your life choices to pursue your dreams. Your career goals. Your “you”. After all, you can’t fully explore the glory that is sausage making and writing while your head is full of someone else’s problems and your ears bleed from their inability to use a cellular device… or a key pad. When the tiny voice on the other side says “press ‘1’” you don’t have to keep pressing it six, seven, eight, a hundred times. Just once.
You’re feeling pretty good about it. Even so good as to look in your inbox to see what lovely modicum of hope has made its way to your tiny glowing screen… Rejection. But that’s okay, stiff upper lip, that wasn’t what you wanted anyway. You keep plugging along, still feeling good about your abilities, some faith still lodged in your cortex that everything will work out for the better. You’re good at what you do, right?
Several hours go by, you’ve pounded your fingers into calloused anvils, and you’re more tired now than the time your crazed PE teacher made you run through the entirety Presidential Fitness Test in the third grade. Another blip on the screen. A little dingle and a dangle. The notorious email envelop with its bouncing number jumps around, trying its hardest to frantically notify you that someone wants to communicate with you. “Rejection”
It’s been three weeks and an inbox full of “Sorry but you suck.” You haven’t written anything in days. Your finger tips are soft like a new born calf’s hide, and you have all but forgotten what a comma does in sentence. Even if you were writing you’d barely know what it’s supposed to do, but at least you’d make it look fancy.
You pray to whatever god you believe in – be it the enraged psycho in the “Good Book” or the relaxed elephant carrying a hatchet and giving you a doped out nod. “At this point,” you think aloud, “Who gives a fuck? Might as well go all out on the crazy train.” You don’t have much else to lose. Your self worth has jumped ship. You remember why you went back to the craze of a shit-stained 9-5. And yet, for some unforeseen reason, you are refusing to settle back into the heavenly crap shoot that is the modernized, yet so outdated, workforce. Bills be damned.
Rejection. Rejection. Rejection. And so on and so forth. Until…