honestly, this has been a very strange week.

the thing is: yes, no one can ever really say that i didn't try - because i did. but i suppose it is fair to say that maybe i was very picky in what i did try. though, is it fair if the things i did try made me very nervous and scared and i did them anyway and even though i have been semi-rejected* fairly consistently, i can still die and know that i tried? that could all possibly be bullshit. i mean, i think it is. but who really cares? don't these things only really matter when you are old and on your deathbed and in a movie, giving your dear beloved protagonist the meaning of life through a hacking cough and oxygen mask? yes. but, seriously, we are owed that cinematic life by hundreds of dead producers and i, for one, will not be ashamed to foolishly take it. because being foolish is another part of that cinematic story moral that needs to be ours. if not for anything else than because life is totally senseless already and any sense you give it is arbitrary and totally revocable, no matter what anyone says. in this ridiculous life, the only thing that's right is what you believe in. and i think i love that belief is so wonderfully ephemeral.

*being rejected is very vague these days. mainly because they are so polite and nice and i can't figure out if it is better to be rejected on a technicality that leaves you wondering if maybe you wouldn't have been rejected if the immediate situation was different or if they just told me to fuck off. the latter breeds closure while the former breeds at least a little self-assurance and optimism. HMM.