So guys? We're very quickly nearing the end of my tenure here. As you undoubtedly know, I'm going to that salmon-colored rag that Choire already turned up his nose at, and whose new owner, I'm told, forces all hires to eat liver and onions until they puke all over Peter Kaplan's desk. Not looking forward to that so much! Um. Anyways! As I said earlier in the day, I'm all kinds of excited and sad. But I couldn't leave without saying a proper goodbye. Memories!
At the Time 100 gala a few months ago, I approached Joel Stein ("humorist," LA Times and Time columnist), whose relationship with this website has been, shall we say, tense, and introduced myself. Almost immediately, he asked why Gawker hates him. He said he "really wanted to know." He also said that his wife gets really upset when she reads Gawker and sees all the mean things people say about her DH. As we parted, I offered to send Joel and his wife a Gawker commenter invite. In the grand tradition of people leaving this place with a fuck-you to the people who, despite being total hacks, have managed to wrangle themselves a lucrative, high-profile job in journalism, I've decided to post our correspondence. Joel Stein, congratulations. You're my Joe Dolce.
Hey! Doree here! Did you forget that today is my last day at Gawker? Yeah, I kind of did too, until people starting IMing me all like, "OMG it's your last daaaaaaaaaaay, are you soooooooo excited?" And yeah, I kind of am? And kind of sad too, really! But anyways, since Jessica Coen was the last editor here who really got to give herself a proper farewell, and she started it off with a cat (ew), I figured I'd start mine off with an oh-so-adorable picture of my dog. JUST BECAUSE I CAN.
Brace yourselves, because here comes the sincere part. I've no idea what to say, actually. Let's be honest: I'm pretty choked up right now and I have no business writing this site if all I'm going to do is blubber at my keyboard. One of the worst things about working from home is that I'm all alone, and there's nobody around to smack me. Or pour me drinks.
The general consensus seems to be that with my last few gawking hours, I might as well write the stuff that I couldn't write before. When you put it like that, though — it's your last chance ever! — I kind of space out. There's so much shit-slinging every single day, I can't even keep track of all the dramatics. But there was one recent incident that I'd been saving for when it might prove useful, and now seems like a good time for sharing.
I've kept my mouth shut for the past two weeks, sluggishly phoning in my twelve daily items ever since I first gave notice (the extra not-funny ones? Those were me). But now it's my last day after two years of this ridiculousness, the last time I will wake up at sunrise so that I might get a leg up on Jann Wenner's sly move to bring Rolling Stone to the studly orgy that is Rio. Well, no more of that. Go be gay, Jann. I care not. In fact, I'm happy for you. I'm a happy person right now. I don't even want to stab Ann Curry!