Looking through my bank statement, I saw an uncanny $120 be withdrawn from my bank account.

I looked into it. The culprit? The New Yorker.

I never cancelled my discounted subscription, knowing full well this time would come. Despite my mental notes to cancel and despite my calendar reminders, I ignored it, turned away.

And so, I sit here, laughing and crying with fists in the air, looking up at the sky asking, “Why, God? Why?!”

But it was me.

And now, with $120 less in my account, I count the ways in which I could have spent this money: new running shoes, books, maybe even some cool new socks. Anything but a subscription.

And so, for this next year, I will be receiving The New Yorker in the mail. Technically, it’s not a bad thing. I’ll have more material to work with and many more cartoons to look at.

But it cost me. It cost me a pretty penny.

So, with that said, be wary of lingering subscriptions.