My bags are packed. I've donated Hell's Lending Library™ to a pack of illiterate orphans because nobody should ever read its contents, my Rolodex was used to light a very peppy hobo trash fire, and my hunk of Dan Savage's hair—what The Stranger considers to be a signing bonus—I have donated to the garbage. Today is my last day at The Stranger.
I am quitting my job to do a liver's worth of damage on a beach somewhere before pursing other life goals, like volunteering on Rob Ford's re-election campaign or becoming a cigarette girl on a Disney cruise ship. Or giving birth to an actual demon.
What I'm saying is, I have a lot of ambition and the world is full of people who aren't going to embarrass themselves.
I've worked for The Stranger for one-third of my life, first as an intern for Dave Schmader, then as everyone's Worst Enemy, and then these past four years as a news writer. I have enjoyed mostly every minute of it (excluding the minutes when Dom was singing or Goldy was talking or the bathrooms weren't working). I'll miss this job and my coworkers, who are a rare breed of functional freaks. I'll also miss having the liberty to write any goddamn thing I please and have my opinions challenged by smart people (and mocked by idiots).
Thanks, Slog, for helping me grow a body's worth of calluses. It's made me a better thinker and a better writer, and I'm grateful.
If you ever need to get in touch—say, for help mocking your enemies, which is all I'm officially qualified to do—you can find me on Twitter.