You know what? I'd never submitted a story to The New Yorker. In June, I did, and yesterday I got a rejection. It said the manuscript wasn't right for them "in spite of its evident merit," and I feel like that's a higher tier of rejection than the standard, so I AM 1000% HAPPY ABOUT THAT. I finally submitted work to their slush pile and it wasn't totally buried. I honestly thought it had been rejected without a response because it had been over the 3-month time limit they state on the website, but I loved getting that official rejection. Especially because I remember being a college sophomore who was ENAMORED with a senior who was so discouraged because he'd sent his story to The New Yorker and they'd rejected it, and I THINK I GAVE HIM SYMPATHY. What. That dude kissed me when he had a girlfriend and was "teaching himself Arabic," though I never saw a single piece of evidence of it and still I followed him around like a puppy dog.
Perspective. High-five to my 19-year-old self for sticking with writing and ditching bad news.
The same story - this is the long one that will probably be impossible to place - was also rejected by the Southern Humanities Review. Two in one day! I feel triumphant? No joke.