Bad news. When I saw the pretty girl in the bar again last night, I decided to recite my poem. I only got as far as the first line about her sable hair when she interrupted to ask what sable was. I told her it was a small mammal in the weasel family and before I could get any further she wanted to know why I was comparing her to a weasel. It went downhill from there.
Rejection is part of the life of an artist. That is why we drink absinthe.
Soon I will try absinthe.