I (don't) Love New York(er)
A year or so ago I subscribed to The New Yorker, after reading an amazing article in the online edition about Americans’ refusal to accept illness and die with dignity. And in honor of that one fantastic article, I am allowing my subscription to die with dignity.
Because holy hell balls, I do not get this magazine. I see lots of smart people, for whom I have deep respect,
pretend to read The New Yorker cover to cover, and I’d love to understand what all the intellectual joy is about. But for me each issue is like crashing an infernally long Bingo Night at Phi Beta Kappa. If I recognize even one of the references in the table of contents, I’m like YES! MITT ROMNEY’S DOG IN THE CAGE ON THE CAR! I KNOW THAT ONE!
And I still don’t want to read the article.
What I do love about The New Yorker, though, is the cartoons. (Yay pictures!)
The cartoons are funny.
That cartoon? Is my life.
That is my funeral!
I am that woman!
Hold on just a minute!
That’s not funny at all.
Damn you, New Yorker.
You wise, brainy bastard, you.
The specter of heredity has lurked in the darker corners of Cheryl Perkins’ mind for as long as she can remember.
Her mother died of colon cancer four years ago, and nearly all of the women on her mother’s side of the family had hysterectomies between age 45 and 50 because of cancer diagnoses.
To read this and other Her Well-Being stories, click here.