As some of you may be aware (actually, none of you - I have no fans, I write this as an internet-published diary in order to keep my lonely madness at bay), I submitted a story titled Dock of the Bay to the literary magazine Tin House for their 2015 Spring themed edition titled Rejection.
I did NOT receive a rejection from Tin House. No, in fact, the status of my story is still listed as "In Review" according to my Submittable account.
That's where things get juicy. Follow along, I'm tellin' a story here...
When I was a younger man, there was a girl I knew who was just hotter'n'balls: gorgeous eyes, curves that could stall your engine, lips like grapefruit - you get the idea. Every fuckin' lowlife I knew was bangin' this girl like a screen door in a windstorm. Every one. Every one but me.
Now if I were a militant feminist man-hater, I would accuse me of objectifying this girl, of thinking I knew her tastes better than her, of turning her choice to have many sexual partners into a crime because she would not choose me, yada yada yada. Truth be told, I don't think any of that. She was hot as hell and she couldn't even see me - I was invisible. I didn't do drugs, I wasn't short and skinny, I didn't have much money, I just wasn't very cool. Tin House - same shit. It's like I never walked into the room.
I submitted a story for a Rejection themed magazine that didn't even have the time to reject me.
So how do you suppose I found out Tin House decided to reject me without an official rejection? Just like any cheating spouse, I could hear Tin House fucking in my bedroom while I was away. I visited their website, saw their Rejection themed publication on sale, reviewed the authors (surprise, I wasn't in the list) and then reviewed my submittable account. Again. Yes, I'd already checked my account before going to Tin House, but I thought I would double check just in case the powers that be realized they'd forgotten me, left me behind; a lame dog waiting to be shot behind the woodshed while the family is away on Spring Break.
Jesus Christ. You'd think by now I'd just give up and spend my last $200 on the roulette tables at Prairie Meadows. Fuck it - when you lose at the casino, at least someone slaps you on the back and says, "Them's the breaks kid, better luck next time."
Not me. I bet I couldn't even give my money away in a casino. Goddamnit.
On a lighter note, I have cancer.
(*edit: three people have now asked me if I actually had cancer. I do not. But I do have a tapeworm as thick as my thumb and as long as sixteen football fields. Sumbitch breaks off every time I shit. So send money for me to clear this thang up.)