Dear New Yorker:
Can anyone actually keep up with you—or do you get some sick pleasure from piling up on people’s coffee tables?
Yes, I would love to read you, but I am really getting panicky finding a new one in my mailbox every other day.
Are you aware that your stories are like 5 million words long?
Sure they’re interesting in a sort of pretentious way. Sure, if I were still watching jeopardy you would come in handy as I guarantee that’s where 80% of the answers come from. But for next week, could you please just send me the comics—as that’s all I have time for (and I don’t even have a paying job, I can’t even imagine what busy people do with you).
Alas, thank you for all you do for the world of upper/middle class (probably 90% white) intellectual people. Without you, we’d lose our standards.
I’m only complaining because sometimes one can really have too much of a good thing. And I feel guilty as I watch you pile up unread—all that knowledge still just drifting out in space, waiting to fill my brain.
Again, I appreciate the time we have had together, but you just crave too much attention. I think we’re going to have to take a break for a while.
It’s not me, it’s you.
It's not you, it's me.
Either way--it's not meant to be.
Love forever and always,