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I lack structure in my life. I can’t wake up without an alarm clock. I can’t make decisions on what to do with my time if I’m not supposed to be at work. I’m usually late by at least 5 minutes. But I can always count on the New Yorker. Every week, it arrives, ready for me to flip through it, read the first 30 pages, and then add it to a pile that resides next to my bed. When the pile reached gargantuan proportions a month ago, and to this I mean I could literally wallpaper the entire house, I finally recycled them. I convinced myself that it was bad feng shui to keep old papers, and that there was no way I was ever going to read them all. Most people in this situation would unsubscribe, however the New Yorker decided that I really did need another year of colorful magazine covers to greet me every morning, despite any protestation from me. Now I’m off to read…

Don’t laugh Ixi, I see the NYTimes in our driveway every Sunday… unread.

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