It’s hard not to feel like a top-notch reject on a muggy Monday after a day at work when you got only a third of the things done you wanted to get done and you want chocolate ice cream but refrain and get healthier (?) fruit sorbet instead and you part the soupy air to make it home and climb up the three flights of stairs and open the door even though you drop your keys and trip over the dry-cleaning and see the open envelope on the table proclaiming your fate, which is: NO. And you thought otherwise?

Funny, I was on the subway coming home today, crammed in, backpack on my knees, a woman’s belly in my face, a man’s elbow in my neck, trying to pretend I was somewhere else, and I thought to myself about this specific rejection. It’s going to be here today, I thought. And, lo and behold, it was. I wish my bursts of psychic proclamation could come before I go through all the trouble to send in. It would save a lot of heartache, not to mention postage.


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