One of the Corporals at work is having trouble with rabbits raiding his
garden. Problem is, his wife won't let him shoot or trap them, and asking
them politely to leave has gotten him nowhere. I suggested maybe he plant
some garlic. See, that way when the rabbits eat it, they'll get this real
bad case of bunny breath, severely cutting down on their chances of ever
getting laid. Eventually, no more bunnies. With ideas like that, is it
any wonder I'm a Master Corporal?
Women interact on a totally different social level than men do. For the
past few weeks Pen had been getting gifts from people at work--going away
presents from customers, co-workers, and friends. She's gone out to lunch
with several of them, they've laughed, cried, and basically made a total
spectacle of themselves. My experience at work has been totally different,
of course. More along the lines of: "What? You still here?"
I just got a lovely form letter rejection for Darkside from Anne Sowards
at Ace Publishing. Oh well, at least she actually replied. I'm having my
mail forwarded to the new address for six months. With the way publishers
and agents are, that's probably not near long enough. Is it just me, or
does it seem like all of my friends are getting agents or getting published?
I'm starting to feel like the smelly kid at school.
Editors, agents, and publishers will have you believe that they're just
ordinary people. That they actually enjoy reading, are searching for new
authors, and would like nothing better than discover some unknown talent
from the slush pile. HA! They're spawns of hell, I tell you. Well, if not
actually spawned there, I'll bet you dollars to dog nuts that's where they're
headed when they die.
Ninety percent of them are nothing but frustrated English majors. These
are the people who conned you into watching The Piano because of
its "artistic merit," and go ga ga over Thelma and Louise. (At least half
of them are frustrated women--although the part at the end where they died
wasn't bad). They probably couldn't write a novel to save their lives,
know nothing about marketing, and the only qualification the do have for
the job is the fact that they're willing to work for peanuts.
They're evil, I tell you. Just when you think you might actually be able
to coast through life a bit--you know, no major ups or downs for a while--they
dig out that form letter rejection they've been holding onto for the past
six months and mail it to you.
But I'm not bitter.
The movers are here to pack up my stuff, including this computer, so I'll
be relatively out of touch until I arrive in Victoria. Until then I'll
be checking my email at email@example.com. Of course, that means this
webpage will go down soon, too. I'll send everyone the new link as soon
as I have it. Until then:
Be Well, Live Well.