Conflicted confession

I have a secret. It's almost too shameful to admit, and a huge blow to my ego. I can hardly spit it out but maybe it will be purging. Ok...I'll try... bear with me... here goes...I dread getting "The New Yorker". It was a huge mistake, like my second divorce attorney. When I see yet another one in my mailbox my stomach sinks and my blood pressure rises. Crap, not "The New Yorker" again, didn't they just send me one?! Why isn't this freaking subscription up already? I'm tempted to immediately throw it away, but stop myself. I instead make a solemn vow that I'll read it. And yes, more than just the cartoons, those don't count. The subscription seemed like such a good idea at the time. My Mother was taking a course on the magazine and my son was an avid reader. I felt stupid when they talked about articles and I had no knowledge of the subjects. I had to have in.

The articles are too long. And isn't the print tiny? A killer combination for someone in a hurry with the attention span of a gnat. I always take a cursory look, a "yes", "no" as to what I want to read. Admitedly, and this is a tough admission, I ixnay most of the magazine. It just doesn't always seem that interesting. There I confess "IT DOESN'T ALWAYS SEEM THAT INTERESTING." Oh God, I'm an idiot. I had so much promise too, I think. Wait a minute, for the record, I did read a very long article on John Currin. I also entered the "cartoon caption contest" twice. I thought for sure I'd win . I lost. Mine were funny though. Right now I have one "New Yorker" by my bed, one in my car and one on the floor of the bathroom. They're like roaches.

I've done this before. I subscribed to "The New York Review of Books" years ago. Each week I excitedly looked through the newest arrival and then put it in a drawer next to my bed for later reading. Fifty two weeks later I had a fire hazard. It was a day of intellectual reckoning when I threw them all away. I got over it eventually and without therapy. I'm looking forward to the week my subscription to "The New Yorker" ends, I may have a little party. Cash bar, no food. Sometimes I'm smart.