Bloody Monday

I love going to the mailbox, almost without reservation, even with its contant freight of bills, coupons, promises of free panties from Victoria's Secret. Some days, when you're a writer, you find that SASE you prepared some time ago: weeks, months, perhaps even years. My SASE's are meticulous, addressed by my printer, complete with printed postage. It's a little antiseptic, sterile, but it makes the process infinitely easier for me. I'm sorry, editors, but my handwriting would never successfully reach you. I don't even have handwriting. It's mouthwriting: I sign things with a pen held in my mouth, which I do just fine. Anything beyond that, though, I'm not so great with. So the printer it is.

Anyway, I was talking about loving the mail. Most days I do. But today may cure me of that for good. In the box were the following:

• a rejection from The Georgia Review, which is no big deal. Who don't they reject?
  
• a letter from Hollins University, where I was up for a job, but now am not. At least I got my book back.
• a rejection letter from University of Illinois Press regarding my manuscript. At least I got a handwritten note with it that said it was "a very compelling and distinctive collection." Except, uh, not compelling and distinctive enough.

So basically I was annihilated on all fronts. I think the only thing missing is an imaginary girlfriend dumping me. Any volunteers? C'mon, it's easy, lots of girls have done it, you can too!

***

To that end, I think I'm going to put myself up for auction. Basically a going out of business sale. Starting now, my smarts (ha!), my mad poetic skills, my awesome career prospects, my fame, my wealth, my undying love, all of it can be yours.

Do I hear one dollar?