Dear Zamboni Editor-in-Chief,
When I overheard the shades in Hades discussing something called The Rolling Stone, I naturally assumed they were referring to me. Upon learning it was a magazine, I was excited. As someone who has been rolling the stone for millennia, I was eager to finally find a publication that reflects my experience. Instead, I was crushed under the weight of disappointment, almost as severely as I had been the first time the stone rolled across my foot during its long descent.
Not only was there not a single stone, but there was not a single mention of myself or my labors. You say Jane Goodall was a “trailblazer” in our understanding of monkeys and yet I, who define how we understand human existence, did not receive a single mention. How is it that Taylor Swift’s rivalry with Charli xcx is more newsworthy than my rivalry with death itself? I can’t help but feel personally insulted by this neglect. My bitch wife got me out of hell, and all you could come up with is this stupid magazine. Just think about that.
This slight stings all the more because of the quality of the content with which you replace me. Your magazine is about as worthless as my daily labor, with none of the philosophy. You say that Paul Mescal is trying to break my heart as though you have the faintest understanding of what the human heart truly yearns for. If you read anything beside Cardi B and Nikki Minaj’s tweets, you might be familiar with a Frenchman named Camus who analyzed my life (with the proper respect it deserves). He determined that once we comprehend that life is futile and absurd, our choice is either resistance or suicide. Clearly, you chose the latter as the quality of the content you produce cannot be considered anything other than artistic suicide.
Camus says, “one must imagine Sisyphus happy.” Well thanks to your publication, I can never be happy. I did not chain death and escape Hades just to be represented by showmen and gossip. It is unwise to anger me and I recommend you improve your content immediately.
Futilely yours,
Sisyphus
