Why I Have So Few Friends: A Field Guide to My Own Social Extinction. On happily abandoning humanity to hang out with Westies.

With respect to George Constanza and unclaimed luggage.

If you’ve made it this far in life without being fired, cancelled, or publicly flogged for saying something true, congratulations — you’re ahead of me. I write because I can’t not; because silence feels like complicity, and complicity feels like rot. If this piece leaves you nodding, snarling, or muttering, “Well, he’s not wrong,” then you’re precisely the reader I’m writing for.

This is your regularly scheduled Sunday post. The appeal to support me in my upcoming fight against the cowards at Humber was a freebie.

You’ll get two essays a week — unapologetically long, occasionally bleak, often funny, always honest. It’s six bucks a month — less than one coffee in Carney’s Canada, or two if you buy the cheap stuff. Everyone says that, of course: “It’s just a cup of coffee.” Fine. But if you’re only going to buy one cup this month, make it mine. It’s $6 a month, and you can cancel anytime.