Moe’s post about Elizabeth Wurtzel’s recollections of David Foster Wallace takes a turn so tender it moved me to the point where I wonder if it’s either time to go back on antidepressants or an iceblock encasing my heart just melted:

[T]ry to imagine forgiving them all, Wurtzel included, reader. To withhold forgiveness at a time like this, in a town like this, is simply to persist the cowardly humoring of the delusions born of the propulsive myopia that won Wurtzel the antipathy of all the peckers that chose to pay attention to her to begin with.

Pearls like this naturally lay before swine. Though perhaps they’re merely a batch of ringers. This commenter, for instance —

I can never understand Moe. She has an aversion to clarity.

— must be a friend of Moe’s who was convinced to post something so epically obtuse in order to make Moe look like a misunderstood genius. Well done, Mulatta, you’ve overdelivered.

Spencer Ackerman

Spencer Ackerman