So in a moment of madness earlier this year, I subscribed to The New Yorker. I was mainly interested in the short stories, that and the credibility I would get for subscribing to it. While some (my dad) called me pretentious, I was determined. The first few weeks it came, I scanned through it eagerly before diving into the short story at the end. By about week four, I was finishing reading the stories online at work because I hadn't had time to finish them earlier. By week 6, it was all out madness. I was weeks behind and the copies started piling up on my mail pile. It stresses me out on a daily basis. WHO INVENTED THE WEEKLY MAGAZINE? I mean, I can keep up with PEOPLE, sure, but the New Yorker requires a big time commitment. They really should warn you before subscribing. It just keeps coming. I've had nightmares, literally. So in summary, I paid $50 to have a weekly reminder that I am an incompetent simpleton. Don't even get me started on The Economist...
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