I was looking forward to having my very own slice of dead tree upon which my Paris Review rejection would be printed. I waited and waited but the thing never arrived. So I emailed the editors; they had this to say:
our reply must have gotten lost in the mail, as we did send you a note back to thank you for your submission and to say that we were unable to accept it for publication but remain interested in your work and would like to see more of it.
Jesus Christ. So close, so close.
If this story were a hand grenade, whole battalions of the enemy would be lying bleeding on the battlefield. It has now been rejected 20 times, by every top-tier mag I can think of; meanwhile, it awaits imminent rejection at 5 more.