Guest Blog by Robert Dean: If I can’t keep my head out of the water, the sharks will get me

July 4th 2K10

It’s my best friend’s birthday and I’m using my girlfriend’s laptop.

Even though it’s still a mac, it doesn’t feel like mine. It’s not mine. The keys are different, the something, is different. Something is wrong. Something feels odd. Lately, everything has felt odd in my life. Lately, every night is spent tossing and turning with wonderment and a side of regret. I think in a lot of ways it’s my emotional state. Something always comes back to something.

The other day I felt so sure of myself, so, on top of my game that I felt I had nailed it, I had finally made a statement in life and someone on my dream list of agents would come to me with that phone call we’ve all been waiting for and say, “let’s do it. Me and you, we’re a team and we’re going to change the world with this motherfucker.” and what? I get rejected, again. Again. I get it, I understand that rejection makes you work harder and humble. Rejection makes you a better you and no one will be able to touch you after you know heartache some kind of twisted Bob Dylan logic. Ok, it makes sense.

Trust me, I get it. But, where do we go from here? I’m not asking for Twilight’s money, I’m asking for a shot. A legitimate shot at the people. I want to see my words in bold face print with someone’s blurb adding to the idea that is my art.

Where I am now? I’m sitting in the dark post best friend drinking session with a small blow up with my girlfriend and that idea that I want so bad isn’t happening. I’m miserable. I’m all kinds of miserable in all colors, shapes and sizes. Is it my job that makes me feel like I do? Absolutely not.

I have a great job with two of the best bosses a person could ask for.

It’s my drive as person.

It’s my living coffin. I write these posts with one thing in mind: exorcism. I want to clear my head and I want someone to see me with the goalie mask off and see how bad I want it vs the idea I project.

I scour my mind to explain myself. Some who read my blogs agree, most decide to twitter elsewhere or care about a Lohan dress malfunction but, whatever, I gotta keep the hustle alive.

What else can I do? Every day I wake up and wonder what’s the difference between being terminally ill, knowing you’re a a failure or being a perfectly living person and working their ass off to be the guy on top but to no result? Where do you go? You could blow your brains out ala O’toole and hope someone realizes your version of “Confederacy of dunces” is as good as his was or you wake up and toil in the real world and hope, letter after fucking letter or email, that someone with pull, anyone, will see you for person you are, the person will not die. The person who gives the finger back to its own reflection.

If I can’t keep my head out of the water, the sharks will get me.

Robert Dean is a freelance writer, author and poet from New Orleans, LA. He is the author of In the arms of nightmares on Slush Pile Reader.