A Small Soliloquy Upon My Progress As A Cartoonist

Well, progress is slow and small. I haven't produced much lately. This is due to a number of factors, the largest being laziness. Once I get home from work I am usually too grumpy and tired to put my cartoonist head on and knuckle down to do some (proper) work. This attitude has to change, else I shall perish (Melodramatic? Moi? Take that back, you blackguard, or else taste my kidskin glove in your mush). What do I, in my heart of hearts, seriously want to do? Do I want to draw cartoons or do I want to slam all the doors in the house and then stamp along the landing? Actually, the latter sounds like fun, but I daren't - it would probably loosen the remaining mortar between the bricks and that way homelessness lies.
I have been proffering my wares to various publications, but haven't had any takers as yet. This is a bit dis-heartening, but is all part of the warp and weft of this cartooning malarky. I have never been very good at handling rejection well, but I'm starting to build up a rejection carapace, piece by piece, for my own protection. So, generally, I have accepted rejection with quite a bit of aplomb ("Ha! Another rejection! Add it to the growing pile, Miss Eyre. 'Twill make excellent bedding material for the hamster, should ever we purchase such a creature."). I make an exception for one particular rejection. Come a bit closer, this is weird, this bit is. One publication rejected me twice. The second rejection came when I hadn't even submitted anything. I think it would be fair to say that that would take the wind out of anybody's sails wouldn't it?
To be fair (not my natural stance) the publication that did it, didn't do it intentionally and is probably unaware that it happened at all. So, I can take that act as an unhappy accident that wasn't intended as a personal affront. Or I can take it as a reminder of my own personal insignificance in a cold, uncaring, infinite and expanding universe wherein nothing I do has any bearing on the movements of the heavenly bodies in an ever-expanding starry sky. Therefore what meaning, if any, does my life have? Why am I here? Why have I suddenly sprouted what seem to be herbacious borders in my ears and nostrils? Explain the practical, evolutionary reasons for that, Mr. Dawkins.
Still, mustn't grumble.
I have to go now. I have some work to be getting on with.