July 12th & 19th, 2021 - Young Girls

Dear TNY,

So I’m writing this first paragraph after reading the first paragraph of your published version of “Young Girls” (the italicized one).  And what I have determined is this is a boldfaced reader-grab by publishing our dead-boy, Proust.  This shit is literally fucking notes.  NOTES!  Fucking Proust’s toilet paper is what you worship!  He’d fucking shit a brick if he knew.  I say again, NOTES!  Pathetic.  Okay, now I’ll read them there notes…

Nah, I can’t.  I made it ¾ of the way through and gave up.  What the fuck is this shit?  It’s just as bad as the Hemingway and/or Kafka from last year.  You’re fucking Burger King.  Fucking Panda Express.  Pier One.  Fucking Baby Gap. 

You know, on that point, you wouldn’t know literature if it put its Pier One in your Baby Gap.

I’m done.  You can resume your regularly scheduled destruction-of-literature program, in which you embarrass yourself week after week.  Take-serious-note:  The guy that said that last sentence also said the Baby Gap sentence, and has the right to be less embarrassed than you do.

On the reals, I don’t normally skim this many stories. Nor do I write such short responses. You know this. This fiction issue is a dream I won’t remember after waking because my subconscious determined it was a fucking misfired jelly fart. An aborted wet dream because it involved relatives. A waste of neurons firing. That’s it. That’s what I meant to say! Your three stories were a waste of neurons firing for all parties. You’ve wasted life energy for everyone involved. Winning!

I’ll see you later this week in person.  Just kidding.  I know you wouldn’t make time for negative criticism and/or a constructive conversation and/or any narrative outside your picture perfect reflection.  That would be way outside your echo chamber and possibly diminish your very well earned, established, and bolstered ego.

Fuck off and keep preening away.

Nick