In a delusional bout of hubris, I just submitted a short story to The New Yorker. The New Yorker? Yes, The New Yorker. Why would I do something like that? Because I like rejection, that's why. Plus, it would be cool to get a form letter with The New Yorker letterhead on it.
OK, so everything points to complete failure for this gamble, but what the hell? Maybe they haven't received anything good lately. Maybe the fiction editors just pin stories on a wall and throw darts at them to pick the stories that go in the magazine. Maybe it's monkeys-take-over-the-magazine day and some primate chooses my story - and then decides to fling poo at Anthony Lane.
I can see it now: toast of the town; the literary event of that week; respect from some of the biggest writers today; the strippers!
I guess I can always blame this on the lack of sleep.