surgeon general's warning: if you're having a shiny happy day and don't want to be smeared with garbage and shit, you'd best move along and not read this.

stick a fork in me, i'm done.

i allowed myself to hope. i should have known better. i placed it on the wall of life so proud, like some demented fecal smearing patient, only for the stinky mess to be examined and then washed away as if it never existed. hope only exists to be butchered like a nosey kid in a slasher film.

i woke up in a pretty decent mood. then i read the rejection in my inbox. i have to tell you folks, i took this one pretty hard. yeah, yeah, i know, i'm not supposed to do that. but i was 80% sure this place would take my story. i was 100% sure, i'd picked the right story for the right publication. i was a 180% wrong.

not to take anything away from you netter, cuz i love ya and you're one talented lady, but damn, it's not like this was fucking Glimmer Train for god's sake. it wasn't even Night Train. and yet, i couldn't even make the cut.

wow, i'm so glad i wasted nearly three months of my life to finally hear "overly sentimental" and "feels contrived" what the fuck am i doing? i can't even get a piece in there.

oh i'm sure a tiny part of this is my emotional squall before the red storm, but most of it is a reality check. i'm only good for dead mule, and nothing against the mule, but lots of those pieces lack in the actual writing. and btw, she's updated the site, yet my story still isn't up yet.

oh well, maybe my family recipes story will be good enough for a bag of fucking coffee.

i'm tired of expending myself. i'm sick of not even being able to get published on a site that doesn't pay. in other words, i can't even GIVE my shit away.

the brisket's burned and the meat is tough and chewy. i'm done.