Forcing the Paris Review to Have a Sense of Humor

While I admire the Paris Review quite a lot, I've always found the journal a bit sober, for lack of a better word.  And since I'm a punk, a documented brat + I like fucking with people (in the sweetest way possible, man, not in a douchey way), I decided to give them a much cooler SASE so when they rejected me--so fucking predictable!--I could at least laugh at my own envelope + maybe force the intern to shake his head disapprovingly.  This envelope also makes me laugh because I can picture the fiction reader (probably some NYU/Columbia MFA student + Paris Review intern) shaking his head at my caption, thinking how lame it is.  We all know the Paris Review would never send an author such a silly rejection envelope, which makes it even funnier for me that they stuck a (lame) form rejection inside this cute little masterpiece.  To give you some historical context, this isn't the first time I've pulled off shit like this.  Back when college students used to send in FAFSA postcards, I'd write embarrassingly personal/dirty messages to myself, which the Department of Education would have to send back to me to confirm they'd received my completed application + I would laugh my ass off imagining a DC bureaucrat shaking his head at me.  Sometimes I do the same shit when I enter a short story contest that asks for a stamped, confirmation postcard.  I dunno, that's just how I roll I guess, forcing sober bureaucrats + iconic literary journals to be way sweeter (cuter) than they clearly wanna be.

Good Rejection from the Paris Review

Yo, I realize this rejection is a far cry from an acceptance.  In fact, they're not even in the same orbit.  I know, I know.  I also realize that the axis on this note is crooked, no editorial assistant or editor bothered to sign her/his name or write one incomprehensible but encouraging sentence in pen, instantly humanizing the cold, mechanical rejection process.  I'm painfully aware of all of these details--trust me.  If I paid any more attention to detail, people would stop accusing me of being metrosexual and start accusing me of being The Other Sex, to be wildly essentialistic.  But after getting nothing but impersonal form rejections from the Paris Review for years, it is just a tiny little bump to finally get a good rejection from such an awesome literary journal.  And while I think having a literary agent would make this process so much more damn viable for me, and while I've read fiction in the Paris Review that is as good, occasionally, better + also worse than the story they just rejected, I feel like it's very possible with more hard work, determination + a lot of luck, that I will get a story published in this journal sometime sooner than later.

Anyway, Paris Review, expect a new kickass story in the mail as soon as I'm done with this motherfucking dissertation chapter.  Then it's your turn!  And I'm bringing the big guns this time.  I'm gonna glock my way to publication.