I feel like the New Yorker is disappointed in me.

Or rather, would be if it were, you know, sentient or animate or whatever. While certain people (read: my father, who almost bought me a subscription for Christmas before cleverly casing out my general indifference to its venerable pages) think we should get a long, I fear that my concerns are not its concerns, my discourse not its discourse, my preferred fiction not its preferred fiction (though we do share a surprising fondness for Sedaris). And, worse yet, despite my best efforts, I can't make it work between us, can't commit to a thorough analysis of geopolitics or discern the soon-to-be-big-time poems from the ones they throw in because Joni Mitchell wrote them. But I've resigned myself to this fact, and I do begrudgingly admire my peers who've secured jobs and internships and profiles within its glorious preference. For me, though, a weekly's just too much of a commitment, even if it were all cartoons.