As a writer, I've gotten used to rejection.
Being rejected stings, sure, but I'm sending out one or two stories a week, so the rejections pour in--sometimes via a form e-mail, which is gross, but sometimes the No is a Not quite, try us again, and I'm enough of a masochist that this feels kind of good.
Real life rejection still hurts a hell of a lot.
Man, does it.
That feeling of utter misery.
The helpless rage. The second guessing. The drink-right-from-the-bottle hopelessness.
It will pass, so I hear. Better days ahead.
I sure hope so.