I'll bump this one up so it makes sense, rather than answer it after a 'Top Ten Funny Looking Turd Loafs' or something.
Anyway, I'm a writer. Not just this, if you can even call this writing. Some of you already know this from reading my blog or seeing my penis in real life, so bear with me, just like when I ask you yet again to look at my penis.
I've written hundreds of poems, dozens upon dozens of short stories, a half-a-dozen screenplays and fifteen novels. My goal for many years has been to sign on with a literary agency to take care of the business side of my work. As of today, I still have not accomplished that goal.
So the negative tone of yesterday's blog post was due to a recent interaction that had been the most promising I'd ever had up until the other shoe dropped into my groin. As is the way with the biz, when they decide they don't want you, you feel a little guillotined; all the positive interactions, trading of materials and personal information is abruptly put to bed with a resounding no. You're then expected to move on, take their sparse to reasonable amount of encouraging words, and send your shit somewhere else.
I allow myself to get my hopes up when these interactions take place, because I want all the positivity and the joy associated with moving to a higher level in my career as a writer. (You may have guessed that selling poetry and short fiction and writing a blog about dick-jokes doesn't pay all that well.) But beyond that, it's been my dream for nearly my entire life to have a published novel. Procuring an agent is the first step to accomplishing my traditional publishing goal, so it's kind of like getting your foot in the door and then having the door slammed on it over and over until you finally can't take the pain anymore, and then you hop around, mad as hell, until you can finally put some weight on it and you go knock on the next door, foolish enough to stick that same foot in again as soon as you see a sliver of daylight.
Short Answer: I'll be fine. Just gotta angry-masturbate to some application forms to cleanse myself of the fear of ever having to get a real job.