Dear Readers:

I, your illustrious Editor (capital "E") have spent the last few daysor minutes, if you want to get "technical"reflecting upon present circumstances. I've been thinking about myself, the world in which we live, love, loss, death, sex, the coming apocalypse, and Gawker.

But mostly about myself.

It has been suggested to me by many of you (and by "many, I mean "three") that I have, in the past, been too hard on the celebrities and media figures whose lives Gawker routinely chronicles in excruciating and completely unneccessary detail. Normally, I'd just blow the three of you off, as none of you live in Manhattan and are therefore painfully irrelevant in The Grand Scheme of Things, but as I said (not three sentences ago), I've been doing some thinking.

"Am I truly an evil Manhattan bitch?" I asked myself. "Am I really the type of person who would sell my grandmother to ill-intentioned Ukrainian gypsies for a line of blow and a decent table at Michael's?" "Do I really care about Tina Brown's cholesterol level when famine, disease, and war threaten the very existence of humanity?"

The answer was, decidedly, yes.

That said, I have probably been a little too hard on the celebrities. Britney has feelings, too. In fact, I'm going to take time today to apologize to a number of people. David and Liza, Harvey, Paris and Nikki, Mrs. Wintour, Citizens of San Francisco: I didn't mean it. I'm sorry. You're all lovely people.

Meet the new kinder, gentler Gawker Editor. Instead of Liz Spiers, I think I'll call myself Liz...hmmmm...need generic last name...

Smith!

Liz Smith! Excellent.

Smile and say, "celebrities are fabulous!"

Your Editor,
"Liz Smith"