You..Me...Cave...Ugg...

I got my first rejection letter today. At last I real like a real writer.

And stupid.

I honestly thought it would have been accepted. That I was going to be a published writer by Christmas time. I don't know why I thought I would be a success. Except that's what it's been saying in my Tarot cards for months. That after all the shit I would be rewarded for leading my crappy life; both financially and emotionally- what else can 'coming rewards for worthwhile projects' or 'your achievements may be in small things'- mean?

The problem is that no one has yet told me that A Flea's Small World is a shithouse story; everyone who has read any part of it has said that they have enjoyed it. Sort of. In a weird way. So do I send it out again? Baring my thoughts to strangers who just might hold my Fate in their hands? Does anyone really want to read Thoghuts either? Would anyone read it besides my Mother?

Because why would anybody want to pay money to read about Me when I am nobody? And I suppose to the literary agency of Ms Tranter I am a nobody- though she herself is of no further consequence either; as far as I'm concerned. Mmm...I must remember not to send her any future manuscripts, I suppose; I'll just make Myself a Mental Note...

But she may have had a point. I have 'episodes' rather than a Life; I don't actually do anything much. Most of the time I just sit around my house waiting for things to happen. Nothing seems to happen for days sometimes. And then there are those other times; when too many things seem to happen at once. Like yesterday night.

I was playing trivia at the pub; I'm always the Scribe because I have the least messiest writing out of the Team. And also because I spell so good. Well. Just as I am writing the word 'ectopic' onto the answer sheet someone tugs me on my pony-tail from behind. That's the third time it's happened- by the third different dickhead tonight- so I guess you might say I'm getting sick of it.

I'm the only female left in the bar besides the bar-girl; and she's too busy putting the beer glasses in the dishwasher and serving the last few remaining customers in the non-smoking section to be paying too much attention to what's going on. I hear the guy running the trivia warning me not to watch the monitor; because there will be something on that I won't 'like'. He's running an email through his computer so that the men in the bar can watch it; it's a series of soft porn images that gradually increase their sexual value to be relatively middle-core porn; images of hot, big titted sluts giving head-jobs to ugly men.

All of the men are paying attention now; it's rather hard not to. But it's not bothering me, either; I don't care that they are watching it- I don't find it offensive or anything. I only wondered to myself if the Trivia guy was allowed to play it in a public bar; or if he would get into trouble with the Publican if he found out that he'd shown it- and not because I was about to tell him.

I make comment to Snowy and Cowboy that I wish Pub Al would fuck off home. The Dweeb. He's already tried to get me to dance with him and despite my kind refusals he refuses to take the hint. He tells me I should want to dance with him because my Hubby's not here to see; so I tell him I wouldn't dance with him even if my Hubby was there.

I tell him, when he asks, that it's exactly 'like that'- and he arches his eyebrows in surprise. I don't understand his confusion; can You or anyone else tell me why anybody would like the Pub Drunk trying to dance with you at any time- but especially when they are a Personal Space Invader breathing on you with stinky beer-breath and trying to touch you at regular intervals?

I told him to fuck off at least three times before he removed himself; obviously offended that I wasn't able to tolerate him- he's even acting hurt in a pathetic kind of way. The relief is instant. I only wish I'd told him to fuck off five weeks ago when I first started going to these trivia nights. He's been here every week and now he mistakenly thinks that we are friends and that he knows me. He knows nothing. None of them do.

The conversation moves back to the porno slide-show we've all just watched; and a guy on the other side of the table pipes up and drunkenly says what a nice arse I have. Whatever. I comment to the only semi-sober guy at the table that no one seems to be aware that my hubby drinks at this pub, too, and he offers to inform them for me that I'm 'taken' and then offers to buy me a drink. Politely; no thanks. My Hubby buys my beer even when he's not here.

Someone tugs on my pony-tail and I whip around to find the offender is pub Al; again. He tries unsuccessfully to put his arms around my waist to dance with me; so I push him off again- this time with true excuses of digging Mickey's grave. I've told him about my cat before; last week he was crying into his beer because his kitten Ellie had been run over and was costing him a fortune at the vet. Humph. At least it's still alive...

He told me he didn't give a fuck about my bruised ribs and didn't believe me about my cat; so I walked out and drove home- almost sober I might add; because I'd been good on the beers for a change; even finishing up with two Hahn Lights instead of the usual four or six bourbons. When I got home I had a little think and realised that I didn't have as much fun at the trivia night as I usually do; and decided it wasn't even because it was becoming a sexually harrassing atmosphere or because Pub Al was being such a fuck-wit. It's no wonder I never dress up when I go out anymore.

Not that I'm even very attractive; I just think some men at the pub last night couldn't handle watching a few images of mediocre porn without resorting to a primitive's state of mind. You. Me. Cave. Ugg. You don't believe me?

So why then was Casper- the friendliest of Humans- all of a sudden telling me that he was once known as the Sex-Man when he worked at Customs; because he could get all sorts of hard-core and illegal porn? Don't get me wrong; I like porn and I like Casper- and I don't for one second think he was trying to get into my pants; most of the time he tells me he thinks of me as his daughter.

So I didn't need to know that he was once known as the Sex-Man. That wouldn't be part of any conversation that I'd ever have with my Dad.

Now; would it be?