Today, I experienced rejection. It wasn't the first time, and it won't be the last. You'll say it means I'm doing something right. You'll say they're morons for not choosing me. You'll tell me something better is waiting for me. And you're right. But I still feel stung. And I'd much rather add this experience to my prized collection of excuses not to keep trying than summon the courage and motivation to believe you.
I'd also rather write something scathing and sarcastic on the social media sites of the people who were selected instead of me, and a lengthy and strongly worded letter to the one who rejected me, outlining in vivid detail precisely how moronic, how misguided, how tragic that decision was.
Luckily, I'm a mature adult. Meaning I've embarrassed myself enough times to know that what I perceive as righteous indignation is actually just hurt feelings. And I should probably calm down, nurse my pride, and try again tomorrow. But not before I publish this passive-aggressive post.
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