Tuesday, June 20, 2006
The thing about rejection is that it leaves you with one inevitable question that you will never get answered. And it never goes away. Everyone has had one form of rejection or another. Everyone. And I suppose some people get over it and others do not. Maybe nobody gets over it. Faced with the object of my rejection the other night, I realize I give this debilitating disease more thought than I probably should. But the other thing about rejection is that it tears open that locked box where you tried to store the inevitable, unanswered question - in a desperate attempt to forget it entirely. You can fill in any of the five W's here: Why did you say no? What was it exactly? Why was it so easy? Why is it that the question doesn't torment you instead of me? What's wrong with me? And whatever it is – please enlighten me so I can correct the problem for future prospects. You want to know. But you don't want to know. In my case, I suddenly became more aware of the millions of pores on my face. I wondered how many of them were clogged with things seen on a Biore commercial and if any of them were launching an attack at that very moment. I was more aware of the broadness of his shoulders - and my shoulders. Freakishly broad for a girl. I became aware that smoking is probably not all that attractive - but a necessary evil I needed to get through it. I became more aware of my nervous habits. Cracking my knuckles, chain smoking and obsessive compulsive eating - the latter of which took place after I got back home, of course. Slowly, and with whatever it takes, you pick apart the little pieces and make them even smaller and harder to put back together. Here is my mess. It is beyond repair. No wonder I'm in the receiving line for premium rejection - I am doomed for good. Somebody get me a bottle of tequila, a couch and a man named Freud. My bills are all overdue because they do not take priority with me. So I spend more money in late fees when I could be saving them like a responsible person. Which means I'm irresponsible. That must be it. Right? I've procrastinated yet another day on two of four stories due by Monday. I'm jeopardizing career opportunities so I can ponder this. I'm absolutely childish. That's probably part of it too. My house is a mess because I don't have time to clean it - my sleeping habits are inconsistent to the utmost degree - and it occurs to me that I haven't been to the gym in months. Longer than months. Several months. Moderately several but you get it. Somehow that must be something wrong. Something that needs to be corrected. Something rejectable.