The Glory of Rejection

    There are days when nothing but shit seems to flow from my fingers.  Days

when the muse has taken a trip to Tahiti to inspire some crazy artist to cut off

their nose and paint a fantasy scene using colors only a madman would dream of.

    Today is such a day.  I received a rejection by email from the editor of a literary

journal.  He was kind enough to point out that I had confused my mythological

characters in my poem, stating that unless Atlas had accomplished more than he

was aware of, it was Sisyphus who endlessly pushed a stone up the hill.

    I felt instantaneous chagrin, realizing that I had created one of the most blatant

of literary blunders, and possibly exposed my entire moronic gene pool.  I was, in

that moment of shame, positive that I would never be able to submit anything to

that particular journal again, as the editor would undoubtedly remember the poet

who had exposed herself as a complete illiterate.  I imagined the chucks that he

and his literary colleagues would share around their favorite table at their favorite

edgy coffee shop.  By the time the editor was done sharing my faux pas, I would

be black-balled from the literary community.  The briefest mention of my name

would send editors rolling on their seagrass carpets in fits of maniacal laughter,

screaming the name of Sisyphus.

    I quickly corrected my poem, my cheeks blazing when I realized that not only

had I confused mythological character's names, I had inadvertently used the word

"innocuous" instead of "incongruous".  My humiliation is complete.  I should go

back to cave painting.