Whatever doesn’t kill me only serves to gradually injure me, whether physically or emotionally, sapping me of the will to live, so that even if I remain alive I’m essentially a walking corpse, until I decide I would have been better off had I been killed—I’m sorry, but you know how everything else pales when you get a really nasty paper cut.
MCSWEENEY'S QUARTERLY SUBSCRIPTIONS
“An enduring literary presence.”—Chicago Tribune
“Brilliant and always surprising.”—Detroit Free Press
Subscribe to McSweeney’s Quarterly today.
Use the code TENDENCY at checkout for $5 off.
Please help support our writers and keep our site ad-free by becoming a patron today!
Trending 🔥
-
November 22, 2023Post-Dinner Interview with a Twelve-Year-Old Who Sat at the Grown-Ups’ Table for the First Time on Thanksgiving
-
November 14, 2023In the Office Auto-Reply Emails for a Hybrid Work Schedule
-
February 23, 2012Lines from The Princess Bride That Double as Comments on Freshman Composition Papers
-
September 2, 2021Oh My Fucking God, Get the Fucking Vaccine Already, You Fucking Fucks
Recently
-
December 2, 2023“Just Say the Word, and I’ll Bring My Whole Heart to Anything”: Remembering Gabe Hudson
-
December 1, 2023A Message from the Chancellor on the Recent Student Protest
-
December 1, 2023We Can’t Wait to Be Part of Your Neighborhood, but First We Need to Dig This Massive Hole
-
November 30, 2023A Garnet Hill Lady Does MDMA