![]() Without it, I feel incomplete and shamefully ignorant of what’s happening in the world. I’ve come to need the knowledge it provides. I learn about anything and everything.Īnd so the paper has become a kind of fix. ![]() I learn about foreign wars and domestic poverty, international intrigue and U.S. I delve into the paper, absorbing page after page of fascinating stories written in crisp, clean prose. Then, I make a pot of coffee, put on my beige slippers and go to work. On those blessed days when I get the paper, I take it inside and glance at the content to whet my appetite. As almost anyone with a subscription will tell you, a delivery is anything but certain. “It better be there, it better be there,” I murmur under my breath, as if this chant will somehow guarantee that my paper has been delivered. I start sweating uncontrollably and my stomach feels like a bundle of knots. The heart palpitations begin immediately. Now, I walk outside my apartment every Sunday morning at about 11 a.m. But this still hasn’t completely relieved my anxiety. To prevent any health complications, I soon switched to home delivery. But this became too risky - if I showed up any later than noon, I’d walk in and find an empty newsstand, an experience that left me paralyzed with rage and despair. Originally, I bought the paper every Sunday at Starbucks on State Street. ![]() The Sunday Times must really be something, I thought, if he’s arguing that it’s better than sex. Being unfamiliar with the paper at the time, I couldn’t validate his statement.
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