When lemons rot where hopes once grew,
the pulp is bitter, the rind is true.
Rejection rains, yet words still crawl—
the beast of NO devours it all.
But squeeze the sour, let fury spill:
the Lemondrilla writes until
the page itself begins to howl—
a citrus curse, grotesque and foul.
Welcome to Lemondrilla
The grotesque sanctuary of every rejected draft.
Here, every NO becomes pulp, every editor’s silence ferments into bitter juice. This is not a place of consolation. It is a citric jungle where words survive by teeth and claws.
Lemondrilla is the totem of literary spite: half lemon, half gorilla, fully fueled by rage. It howls at closed doors, pounds on the typewriter, and spits seeds of satire across the void.
If you’ve ever tasted the sour sting of rejection, you belong here.
Peel back the rind. Sink your teeth in the pulp.
Unleash the Lemondrilla. 🍋🦍