Dear Readers, fans in the shadows, discreet haters, imaginary clients, and bimbos of the apocalypse (my muses, my favorite gal pals, whom I greet along with their fake nails clicking like castanets), the time is dire: the company is closing for the holidays.

Yes, that dreaded moment for some and long-awaited by others: I’m leaving, everything’s shutting down, curtains drawn, radio silence until further notice (or until the A/C in my luxury hotel breaks down and I come screaming my pain on Instagram).

Don’t be mistaken it’s a necessity. My brain has been on strike since early July, my ideas now sound like jokes from a corporate Christmas party, and my ego that wild beast I’ve been raising since adolescence has decided to go on a spiritual retreat (at Club Med).

So I’m forced to shut myself down. It’s brutal, but for the best. Because deep down, I don’t like myself at all. Nothing I do ever finds grace in my own eyes. Even this very article you’re reading already seems terrible to me. But I cling to it—it’s my trademark: aesthetic disgust for myself, as a philosopher might say, had he been unlucky enough to meet Lucien Pages.