Dear Writer (although we both know I’m being wildly generous with that title),
Certainly you are aware that Haughty is the largest magazine in the world, so we must assume that your submission was a mistake. Yes, we at Haughty are magnanimously assuming your submission was a mere slip of the finger, a twitch you really should get checked out.
You see, and don’t take this personally, you are nothing but a crumb on our plates; you are lint in our intern’s belly-buttons; you are a stranger’s hair clung to this season’s Michael Kors pea coats, extant only because of the torments of static electricity in winter months. But, in the laughable unlikelihood that you in fact intended to contact us in regards to your humorous essay, wistfully and preposterously expecting us to consider it, I’m here to inform you, and then reiterate, that Haughty is the largest magazine in the world. Not large. Or larger. But largest. Capiche? Excuse me, Italian isn’t sophisticated enough of a language for us here at Haughty. Allow me to rephrase: Comprenez-vous? Ugh, excuse me again: that was the formal conjugation, but there’s no need for such linguistic respect on my part given that I hold the coveted position of Staff Member at Haughty magazine and you are a–forgive the assumption–high-school dropout who will never see her name reflected in Haughty’s glossy pages so, one last time: tu comprends?
Haughty does not consider itself a starting point for writers or those just learning how to read. No, Haughty considers itself the pinnacle of a writer’s career; we are a snowcapped apex glittering at sunset. We are the starving artist’s Everest, which is why our unofficial motto is, “It’s all downhill from Haughty.” When a reader opens Haughty, she expects the pages to radiate with esteemed names such as Dior, Prada, and E. L. James. She doesn’t expect, well … you.