| 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.
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