Because I, a person so concerned with the suffering of others that I routinely save spiders and flies from the certain death or, at the very least, reduced standard of living that would result from their being trapped indoors, cannot bear to think of you experiencing the gooberosity that I have begun, masochistically, to invite into my otherwise socially fruitful life by waltzing into various tangentially magazine-related scenarios (like this one), declaring myself a New Yorker bloggist, and turning into a media-circus freak before my very eyes. Trust me, you don't want the agony. I'll bear it for you, as though it were a hairshirt made of itchy pencils and tiny, biting Gopniks. You can have faith that when next you think of me, I'll be writhing in a bar somewhere attempting to speak full English sentences to people who, before this mad experiment, would not have reduced me to gibberish. Reporting is pain, by Jove, and I want more of it!