• November 18, 2018 |

    Editor’s Note: November 16th 2018

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    Here at post-, we’re completely sick of Thanksgiving. By now, everyone knows what’s going to happen: footballs will get kicked, racist histories will go unaddressed, and those stupid belt-buckle hats will continue to be a fashion disaster. We think the holiday has grown sterile, trenched and predictable in its repetitive ways. What you call respect for tradition, we’d call a serious crisis—our nation’s great spiritual imprisonment.

    So before we crash your party, replace your turkey with chicken, your cranberry sauce with ranch dressing, and your stuffing with a copy of Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee, we’re gonna shake things up at homebase. Though you may count it among your blessings to read our magazine each week, we’ve combed this issue for five things that’ll make you feel unthankful for post-. Though such great writing made our task difficult, we’re confident you’ll put down this newspaper cursing your rotten luck.

    At top, Andrew Liu’s plea not to despair in the face of climate change will give you one less reason to be sad all the time. Dang! Now your sinuses will dry up. And after reading Nicole Fegan’s touching memoir of friendship and pancakes at College Hill’s La Creperie, you’ll be so starved for companionship that you might just eat your friends. Rats! Cannibalism gets life imprisonment in Rhode Island.

    Turning to the arts section as you await trial, you’ll be compelled by Griffin Plaag’s glowing recommendation of Aviary, the new Julia Holter album. Sit down to listen, and plot twist, it’s 90 minutes long— you were gonna use that time to finish your essay! Too late now! Expelled from Brown, you flip, despondent, to Robert Capron’s stunning tale of a redemption found in Bojack Horseman. This could be my salvation, you’ll think. But wait, oh no—you sold your Netflix subscription to pay for lunch!

    Returning at night to your pitiful shelter, you pull our issue over you as a makeshift blanket. As it drapes your eyes, you notice a piece you haven’t read yet: a modest collection of the people, places, and little pleasures our staff is grateful for. A snag catches in your throat; you too had things to be thankful for, once. As you start to cry uncontrollably, the wet newspaper disintegrates in your arms. post- has stolen everything from you, and now it is gone. Happy Thanksgiving.

    So turn the page, if you dare. Best case-scenario: you’ll read too fast and get a paper cut.