Oh, Newsweek. Who are you trying to fool? I know you won’t really leave me, no matter how many letters you send to the contrary. You keep telling me it’s my last chance, and if I don’t give you what you want ($21.95 annual subscription fee) you claim that you’ll stop coming over to my house but I just don’t believe you anymore. We’ve had some good times over this past year, ever since my Mom introduced us as a gift. You were never my favorite magazine, not as deep or interesting as some others but not entirely without charm. But you just don’t stimulate me anymore. It’s always been a little dicy, but I’ve started seeing someone else and I get more from that relationship than anything I ever had with you. Not to mention all the action I get online. I know this hurts. And right now I’ve even stopped turning to you for a quickie when I’m alone on the toilet. I just don’t respect you anymore, yet you still keep coming. You’ve sent me lettr after lettr, each one claiming that it was my last chance and you were really done this time. But you always come crawling back, curling up in my mailbox every Thursday. I just throw you out now. So go ahead. I dare you. Make it my, no our, last issue.