i'm very much unused to sustaining injuries. rarely in my lifetime have i ever put myself out in a position to be hurt, whether from climbing trees, riding roller coasters that go upside-down, or skiing down black diamond slopes even after numerous lessons (skill-wise, i'd advance to black diamond, then let fear propell me back to the safety and comfort of the blue squares). or whether from contests, for that matter. i submit to publications on campus but i can virtually count the number of times i've submitted poetry to the real world on one hand.

the result of my timidity, or excessive desire to protect myself, is that i have little experience coping. every few seconds i do something normal with my hand for which i am rewarded with a preachy twinge. i'm fascinated by the bruises around my left knee. when i woke up saturday morning i phased through my typical bitter reaction to rejection. ben calmly let me rant about how i'd learned my lesson: no more movies about queer poeple, cuz "i know values are paramount, but my values are Paramount." i railed at the film industry, despaired of my own chances to ever achieve anything.
and then, after a bit, i was spent. since that morning, when people have asked me about the contest, i've replied honestly with very little ire. consequently people haven't demonstrated an excessive need to pity me, which is what i feared most. i didn't think out this strategy; i couldn't have planned it if i tried. but i think it means that, even if unconsciously, i'm getting better at this getting hurt / losing thing. (i even know, as was established in a convo w/ ms becca this evening, that the not-writing-about-queers thing isn't possible. she pointed out i'm surrounded by them. to ignore their influence would be artificial. so fuck paramount, or miramax even, if they don't like it: i'll find myself a capital-a Ally to make movies with, and if no one else my beloved queer-folk will come to see it.)