With December comes the end of another wildly adequate year of cutting-edge journalism, edgy opinion-making, and our single-handed revival of the payola craze.
We all take stock options of our lives, propose wildly unrealistic things we’ll never do, and perform the autopsy on what we made of ourselves in the last year.
I’m torn between getting this hatred and disgust that lies within me in steaming clots out once and for all and maneuvering my mouse to “no” when asked to save.