Mired in self pity

Today it happened again.
I received a rejection letter. My poetry has been given the verbal equivalent of the big giant stage hook.
Not only has my poetry not been asked into the club, but it was requested that it move out of the roped off area. Maybe it's the velour jumpsuit? So tonight I am mired in a swamp of self pity and morose. It won't last too long, just long enough for me to question every talent I thought I had.
I should focus my brain on solving the time travel issue. I'd like to fire up the ol’ DeLorean, rev her up to 88mph and whoosh...off to the past.
First stop, unknown publishing house.
Target, the first editor or reader-of-slush that thought it was a good idea to send out generic rejection letters.
Method, general harassment by vicious paper cuts and strategic use of lemons.
There, done. Back to the future with me.
The world is a happier place now!
OK, so I'm not going to do that.
I just wish that the letters, postcard in this case, you receive from a publisher was more personal than:

"Dear Writer;
Piss off and stop troubling us with your drivel. We have much better things to do with our time than read your garbage. For instance, on the day your collection of poetry arrived, we were having a spirited nerf gun battle in the office. I actually had to take time away from office warfare to open your envelope long enough to get the SASE out and stuff it with this letter...er...postcard.
Best of luck placing your work elsewhere (perhaps they won't play nerf there).
Sincerely,
Literary Journal that will never publish you.

p.s. Thanks to you, I now have a suction cup dart stuck to my forehead."

OK, so I'm paraphrasing.

Well, as I have chosen this particular activity in which to try and succeed, I guess I should stop all this crybaby crap and get writing.
I'll send more word slop out, and perhaps I'll hit the next editor during a break in the nerf season.

YAY, 1st rejection letter of 2006!!! WooT@#$!$#
See, I'm getting better already.
All you can do is make fun of these things. I'm pretty sure Mark Twain even got rejection letters. Yeah, don't go check that, just trust me, HE DID, JUST LIKE ME!!!

So every thing will be ok.

BTW…MANY thanks to my wonderful wife who has to live with me during these foot stomping stages. And you thought Fish Friday’s were tough to live with.