I’m waiting to exhale. Under hot pellets of water, I close my eyes and fixate on success while I adjust the temperature of the shower. Hotter, hotter, too hot. I’m working on excellence, being rejected and ignored by everyone in the process. The bathroom is now my refuge. A tiny place where I rinse off defeat, stare at myself in the mirror and piss frustration. I mean, I’ve lived in the city for six years now, and I still don’t know what kind of person I want to be: artist, writer, doodler, designer, consultant, freelancer, whatever. On the weekdays, I like to imagine myself as a sophisticated woman ordering an Americano on her way to work somewhere cutting edge. But I’m not her, not yet. I’m the one behind the counter, serving this woman an Americano. Working on excellence.

If there’s one thing I’m really good at it, it’s being rejected. I’ve got 10,000 hours of failure to qualify me as an expert and Malcolm Gladwell will back me up on that. I’ve been rejected, ignored, fired and let go so many times; I’ve got all the answers when it comes to failure. It’s not that I’m proud of it, I’m just SO good at it that I want to share my wisdom with other women who get shot down. Because trust: it takes a seasoned veteran to take rejection as well as I do. I’m surprised I didn’t think of this before – like, how many rejection experts are as young and hip as I am? None. Everyone is too full of themselves to admit that their life isn’t as sexy as the half-naked pool pic on their Instagram account. But not me, I’m different. I’m a scumbag. I don’t even have a tan. But hey, rejection is the best thing that can happen when you’re soul searching and running through the city.

Rejection is like sliding up and down a pole on stage for the world to see: It’s easy to swing in a spiral down, but it takes strength to pull yourself up while still looking flawless on stage. I’ll admit while I was spiraling down last week, I started to doubt if I’d ever have enough money to live alone, adopt a shelter dog or buy chia seeds for homemade lunches every day; the dream. That’s when my ass hit the floor and I couldn’t pull myself back up.

Rejection is heavy like that, the type of weight that drops your ass to the ground like it’s hot. (And not in the Snoop Dogg way. More like the humiliating, “AHHH, MY ASS HURTS!” sort of way.) When your ass does hit bottom, I recommend listening to Coldplay’s Parachutes album, because it’s chill and sad. Being critical of yourself is an important step in the rejection process, so take a moment to lie down in defeat when rejection takes a piss on your WOE parade. Because it will.

Since declaring myself an expert in rejection, being dramatic has become necessary. The first thing I do when processing rejection is throw my hands in the air and say, “Oh, cruel world!” in a quiet coffee shop filled with design-savvy, successful people (I recommend R2 or Dark Horse). Once you’ve checked “dramatic coffee shop hysteria” off your list, it’s time to call loved ones. The first person I call is my dad. I like to pretend that streetcars are blowing up around me. “DAD. LISTEN TO ME, MY EDUCATION IS GOING TO WASTE! I DIDN’T GET THE JOB AT THE RECORD STORE. OMG.” Trust me, this happened. And like always, he reminds me that until I’m on my knees cleaning dirty toilet bowls to afford fish and chips like he did at my age, I shouldn’t be complaining. Good point, Dad.

Now let me tell you about my recent rejection so you can relate to me on a much more authentic level. On Monday, I was violently shot down by a fling of way too long. While working on excellence, I decided that my feelings were all over the place and I couldn’t see him anymore (casual sex has an expiry date). I texted to tell him first thing in the morning, annnnnd…he NEVER responded. Not even a “See ya later, kid.” Nothing. I felt destroyed. Mind you, as a rejection expert, I get carried away too often, but still. I went to bed feeling like an abandoned mattress on a street corner. It hurt.

I woke up the next morning feeling like a hopeless twit with no pants on. I dragged myself out of bed and dabbled on red lipstick like a sophisticated version of myself. Staring into the mirror, I realized that I couldn’t see the difference between the winning Sarah and the losing Sarah. I hadn’t elicited the gushy response I wanted from my casual sex thing, but heck, who cares? The timing was off. I tried and failed. So what? It’s not my fault that I’m a superstar at rejection. It’s who I am. The girl who trudges along, being rejected, but keeps on going for the purpose of WOE. That’s the fun part: proving people wrong. At least I know myself well enough that I’m not afraid to put myself out there and be totally ignored. It’s all a part of the loser-pathetic-sad-defeatist-feel-bad cycle.

Rejection sucks, no joke there. Even when you’re an expert in rejection, it doesn’t change the fact that eating shit is like eating shit. Rejection is raw and ruthless, and everything feels unfair and hopeless like exchange-only return policies or stale cookies. But hey, I’m the sum of my rejections. I can’t write as well as the women I follow on Twitter, my proofreading needs some work, and I’m still figuring out the type of person I want to be.

Rejection is the only thing that cancels out the things I definitely shouldn’t be, the careers I’m not meant to have and the flings that are…just flings. Yes, I’m not as successful as FKA Twigs, but I don’t think anybody notices tbh. People are too busy thinking about themselves to care. That’s the trick, you see. Working on excellence is about recognizing the truth: nobody cares, except for you, silly pants.