22
May
Relentless
We’ve had a subscription to The New Yorker for about four months now. I guess I got tired of having to wait until I had to use the facilities in other people’s houses to read it. I mainly got tired of spending a suspicious amount of time in other people’s bathrooms, time that other people might imagine is being put to other uses. You know how people who aren’t me are! And it turns out that the magazines are incredibly cheap if you get the mailman to bring them to you.
But there’s one other thing I’ve noticed about The New Yorker: it just keeps coming. Every other day, it seems, there’s a new one squatting in my mailbox with the flyers and the bills. Did I have time to read the last one? I did not. Am I falling farther behind? I am. It’s gotten so bad that I haven’t even managed to look at the comics for the last two issues. That, ladies and gentlemen, is bad. And I see it only getting worse, unless I remember to bring an issue or five with me on plane trips in order to catch up.
Life was easier when The New Yorker happened only in other people’s bathrooms.
