Looking through my bank statement, I saw an uncanny $120 be withdrawn from my bank account.
I looked into it. The culprit? The New Yorker.
I never cancelled my discounted subscription, knowing full well this time would come. Despite my mental notes to cancel and despite my calendar reminders, I ignored it, turned away.
And so, I sit here, laughing and crying with fists in the air, looking up at the sky asking, “Why, God? Why?!”
But it was me.
And now, with $120 less in my account, I count the ways in which I could have spent this money: new running shoes, books, maybe even some cool new socks. Anything but a subscription.
And so, for this next year, I will be receiving The New Yorker in the mail. Technically, it’s not a bad thing. I’ll have more material to work with and many more cartoons to look at.
But it cost me. It cost me a pretty penny.
So, with that said, be wary of lingering subscriptions.