Fast-acting MegaBummer

Ah, a crummy couple of days over here at Chez McGhandi, I think you could safely say. First of all someone who is related to someone who lives here had a bad diagnosis. I must remember that next to this that my problems seem piffling.

Actually, that puts it into perspective.

Anyway, a few days ago, I wrote about how I did not know whether or not my article had been selected by Big Deal Journal. Well, the decision was a pass and a tepid offer that I rewrite, but they could not really recommend it. Indeed the editor suggested another journal.

Damn it.

Now, I'm an academic. I am used to getting rejected. I get more rejection letters in a week than most people get in their entire lives, but this one hurt because they seemed so interested in it the first time I submitted it, I had put-near bust my ass to get it ready for the reviewers the second time, and then they did not like what they had suggested. I dared to think about this being a very, very strong publication on my CV that would set me apart from many of my peers. Never get your hopes up. Things routinely suck.

The night when I got home, I had a strange bout of despair. The prospect of re-revising and facing that fucking article again makes me want to puke. Let's just say I felt like a person with fewer prospects or promise than I was when I woke up.

I'm giving myself two weeks before I look at the goddamned paper. I am working on a conference paper right now called "Freudian Zoology: Do Kitties Pounce Birdies Because They Want to Sleep With Their Mothers?" I can't even imagine being at all interested in presenting this paper, which I still have to write. I figure about 12 pages double spaced will suffice for the conference. I am merely dipping my hand into the dank, fetid pool of stagnant water that is my dissertation and will present whatever I happen to pull out.

HJ