Wow, feels kind of self-indulgent around here this week. That's probably because a) there's no news, and b) we are so completely in love with ourselves and our drama and we are endlessly fascinated with what we write about best, which is us. This post will be no exception. It's all about me. Did you know it's my "Gawker birthday?" It's true! I started here a year ago today. In the intervening twelve months I've worked with six different editors, written approximately 2,500 posts, suffered through three staff transitions, and learned more about Rupert Murdoch than I know about my own family. I developed a case of pneumonia that literally almost killed me, I've never slept more than five hours a night, and, once, Nick Denton gave me the finger. ("It means you've arrived," he explained helpfully.) A man can only take so much.

So I'm off for the rest of the week, heading toward Maui to tail Paris Hilton and leaving the laptop behind. Hopefully, the intervening five days will allow my crippled fingers to heal and give me time to kick my worrying speed habit. Everyone's off tomorrow, but Choire, Emily, Josh, and Doree - who, in spite of everything, really are the best team you could hope to work with (except Emily) - will see you through the rest of the week. Be kind to them: Can you imagine what it's going to be like to be shorthanded during a news lull? On the other hand, it may turn out that a Balkless Gawker is a superior site. Which is my biggest fear! As difficult as this job is, I'd hate to leave it just now - I don't have anything else lined up yet. So have fun, but not too much fun.

And have a great Fourth, kids. Eat a hot dog for me.

[Image: Achewood]