This unhelpful thought is compounded by the fact that I believe the hype about emails, I believe it in the same manner that some people believe in God, at an emotional, visceral and impossibly irrational level. Emails are fast, so that means replies will be fast, so that means if I send someone an email there is no reason why I should have to wait any time whatsoever for a reply because the rest of the world is just sat waiting to reply to ME. This is quite evidently the thought process of a lunatic.
Consequently when I send off an email to someone who is looking for bands to play at their venue I enter a shameful spiral of constant inbox checking and growing anxiety. It becomes an unnatural preoccupation. Some people do reply quickly, setting the bar for everyone else. Some people never reply at all, which is not good. Strangely enough very few people fall in the middle of these extremes.
It’s the lack of reply which is the worst bit. It would be easy to just shrug it off and go “hey, relax, them’s the breaks” and so forth. Unfortunately I have not perfected my shrug yet. Instead my intestines seem to slowly wrap themselves around my lungs, getting tighter with every passing day without a reply until, when a critical pressure is reached, the black bubble of impatience bursts and I roar, usually in Mike’s car on the way to rehearsal “Fuck them. Fuck them in the ear!”
|Waiting whilst being manly|
You see, it isn’t the rejection that hurts. Rejection is tolerable. Never getting a response is akin to having no voice, to simply being ignored. Of course there are many reasons why a response may not be forthcoming, mostly mundane and administrative in nature. That’s why you deploy the follow-up email strategy. To have your follow-up email disappear into the void is harrowing.
The wounds heal of course, but like the rejection of a lover or the death of a pet, they never really go away. Sometimes I wake up screaming or I will be found checking my inbox in my sleep. At times like these I have asked my nurse that I be restrained and sedated. It is for my own good I reason. One day I awoke to find that I had daubed “Good Manners Cost Nothing” in foot high letters of excrement across the dining room walls. Another time I challenged a promoter to a duel to the death with pistols at dawn. The bounder never showed though. It is with sadness then that I must conclude that whilst I am indeed quite mad, it is the moral decay of the nation which has made it so. God Save the Queen.