2008–2011: Writers’ Strike & Depression

I thought I’d get paid more after the writers’ strike because that’s what me and my bedazzled Writers’ PAs are the backbone of the industry! signs were for. But a bunch of writers’ PA jobs were cut, so I had an important decision to make: move back to my parents’ mansion in Bethesda or dumpster dive for Subway sandwiches near the Santa Monica Pier. So, dumpsters it is!

Hello, everyone! Welcome to the August 2025 issue of Defenestration, the literary magazine dedicated to humor and one of the few artifacts that will remain after the apocalypse (alongside cockroaches, AOL discs, and Twinkies). We’re happy you’ve decided to join us this month for an adventure into the surreal and absurd. You won’t be disappointed.

Last night I couldn’t sleep. The holidays do that to me. I went downstairs, figuring I’d make myself a little snack. A chocolate chip cookie and milk, maybe – nothing crazy. But even before my hand gripped the stainless-steel handle of my smart fridge, its display lit up: Wouldn’t it be better to just call your mother?

“It’s two-a.m.” I said. “I’m just hungry.”

There they are again, unboxing their fucking noise-makers. Attaching long orange snakes from my walls to their things, horridly neon things. God, what an endless din. I watch them through gaps in the lath, peeking out between its cracks. Rattling vibrations shake me loose from my nap and I slipped through a fresh hole in the plaster.

Leila’s front wheel wobbles when she cycles over a crack in the tarmac. A car behind blares its horn as she struggles to steady the books in her basket and keep her summer dress from flaring up.

‘You daft old cow,’ the driver yells as he overtakes. He waves a flabby arm at her, blurry tattoos stretched all out of shape. She gives him the finger back.