Dream we are obliged to defend ms we are particularly taken with at the moment before a panel of senior agents, all of whom belligerently scoff at its merits. Despite our impassioned pleas ("It needs revision! But it contains the seed of genius!") agents demand we reject it. Wake up at six a.m. consumed with anxiety. AGAIN. Forget to eat breakfast.
In Benadryl-induced coma, accidentally form-reject "Steve."
Receive email from friend of friend of friend of "Steve" who is so excited about his unwritten memoir he has QUIT HIS DAY JOB to prepare for its eventual success, and now merely needs an agent ("Steve," natch) to negotiate the finer points of his certain seven-figure advance. FOFOFOS has enclosed "tentative" sample chapters. We attempt to compose witty riposte re: their awfulness; Benadryl haze prevents our efforts, leaving us only the ability to assure you through a dense and hazy mental landscape that sample chapters are bad enough to make us weep in our current fragile state. "Steve" entrusts us with the responsibility of drafting "some kind of friendly and personal but firmly discouraging" rejection.
PLEASE SEND HELP. PLEASE. IT'S NOT EVEN LUNCHTIME.