THE BLOG
11/05/2013 12:38 pm ET Updated Jan 23, 2014

Requiem for a Frustrated Writer

Hey Jackass! Yeah, YOU -- the lame, inconsiderate 'contact person' who keeps ignoring my e-mail queries (note to self -- do NOT send this; strictly a venting exercise).

Here's my simple question, Butt-Face: What does it take to get a response from you? Say again -- you don't recognize my name? I'm not a famous best-selling hotshot? Well of course you don't know me, that's why I'm sending you the damn query in the first place! (Too bad I can't send this but WOW does it feel good).

If you weren't such a crap-headed DORK maybe you'd open my messages and find out I have something of interest that could actually benefit the pathetic little rag you "work" for. But logic doesn't seem to be part of your lifestyle.

Do you refuse to answer your phone when the caller I.D. shows a name you aren't familiar with? I guess that would make sense in your ego-inflated personal wonderland. Maybe I should just barge into your office right now with a rubber mallet and bash you over the head. Would that get your attention? Probably not. I'm positive it wouldn't hurt because your thick skull undoubtedly offers ample protection to the tiny, barely-functioning brain within. So tell me, Fearless Master of All Ignoroids, were you born stupid or do you work at it every day? (Good one -- need to be sure and use that line in my next YA manuscript).

How hard can it be to make some perfunctory, even miniscule response to a polite query? The phrase "Sorry, this isn't right for us" is SIX words and it just took me three seconds to type them. But I guess you are so INCREDIBLY busy that three extra seconds will never be part of your daily schedule. When does someone like you find time to have lunch? Or maybe you don't eat anything, maybe you're some kind cyborg bio-mechanical hybrid that subsists on liquid nutrients pumped through a plastic tube inserted into your left eye socket (REPEAT -- keep the cursor away from anything that looks like the word 'Send').

I wouldn't even mind if you insulted me. Dash my hopes. Crush my dreams. Seriously. After being ignored for so long, a form of Stockholm Syndrome sets in. Go ahead, tell me my idea sucks, say a typing ferret could do better, but say SOMETHING!!

Perhaps blatant, persistent disdain is one of your cherished family traditions. I bet your parents were good at it; I bet they just ignored you relentlessly when you were a baby and laughed while you were lying in that urine-soaked playpen. And now here you are, paying it forward every day. Do you enjoy stepping over guys lying on the sidewalk without even glancing down at them? Is that your idea of lookin' for fun and feelin' groovy? (I never knew tapping my rage could feel so cleansing!)

Much as I would like to keep this train of thought grinding over your worthless carcass it's time to move on. When I have made my breakthrough and my literary talent is known far and wide, you are welcome to query me anytime, and guess what? You'll get a cheerful reply when Hell freezes over and pigs fly in formation to the moon and back.

Nailed it. Grand slam. Just have to make sure no one sees this. Click the 'Delete' box and get on with the day. Bingo! Done. Hey--why is everything still on the screen? What just happened here? Why is this not deleted?

Wait a second. Wait--did I...? Oh my God.......