decision to self: make living as a writer. or die. because i like to sleep in. and also, i like writing.
day we become homeless: receive a rejection e-mail from McSweeney’s. the web editor informs me that i am clever, but not funny. i realize i prefer the usual “thank you for your submission, but your piece does not meet our needs at this time” rejection letter, rather than:
Dear Jennifer Hee:
Our dead grandmother has a better sense of humor than you.
So does our “special” intern from the Program for the Betterment of Defective Peoples.
So does my dog, who doesn’t talk and isn’t able to solve for x.
Also, we also don’t like your name. It’s both bland and ethnic. Such a combination will give people indigestion. From boredom.
Better luck next time.
But not with us. Never submit to us again.