I'm a loser, baby

Loser on the rocks, please:

Okay, I think it's safe to say that my book is so not getting published. All that screaming when that book editor called must've jinxed it all. Maybe I was too excited during that coffee meeting. Stuttered, giggled, appeared way too eager. Crap. Now, I've heard nothing from the book editor. It's been two months. Two queries via e-mail -- both snubbed. Deep freeze. Ouch. Frostbite. There goes my left thumb.

Loser on the double:

They've apparently sent out the Palanca notices already. Winners have gotten their we're-so-happy-to-inform-you and their congratulations via registered mail. Tom and I got zip. Not that we expected to win. I mean, you dream about it, because how could you not? But we didn't expect. But it would've been nice. Not because of the fame. Or because of the validation from fellow writers. Or because you've finally clinched what you believe is your rightful place in literary history. But because of the prize. I mean, 12G's a nice amount. Just imagine the shoes.