I feel like I’ve been transported back to Jr. high. All those times I asked a girl out and she rejected me and all those times I just wanted to sit in my room and listen to wuss rock and contemplate what I was doing wrong have come back full circle. Except this time it’s not a girl. It’s a job or it’s a publishing company or it’s just plain old life rejecting anything I remotely throw at it.
I know, I know. Boo hoo to the poor guy who has a new house and an amazing wife and the best fur babies anyone could ask for. Of course all of these things are spectacular and help me get through the day, but at what point does a man break down? How many “Sorry, you’re not good enough”s can any person take before they lock themselves in their room, with the lights off, a bottle of cheap whiskey and cry themselves into a stupor while listening to Coldplay?
I don’t know because I haven’t reached that point yet. It’s been four months of continuous “You suck”s and although I’ve been close to the breaking point (I’ve drank nice whiskey while listening to sad bastard music, thank you very much) I haven’t completely broken into a stupid mess.
I guess it’s because anything worth having isn’t easy. Chasing your dream isn’t a piece of cake, and when I decided to be a writer I should have known it wouldn’t be a walk in the park (how many more cliches can I fit into this sentence?), but I certainly thought it would be a tad bit easier than this.
I keep having all these mottos go through my head. “Just keep swimming,” “as the road gets longer, I get stronger,” “I think I can, I think I can,” “Be so good they can’t ignore you,” and “I hanker for a hunk of cheese (what? I really like cheese).” I guess these are what keep me going when it gets tough to keep asking out a job on a date. But at least this time around I don’t have a squeaky voice and low self-esteem.
Now excuse me while I got sit in the closet and listen to The Fray while guzzling Evan Williams.