The Saddest, Worst Thing You’ll Ever Read Is This Martin Shkreli Love Story | #tinder | #pof

This has been, it is safe to say, a difficult year. One filled with loss, loneliness, misery, want, heartbreak, ennui, bad decisions. A year in which misplaced trust in venal people making choices so obviously, blinding wrong at the moment of their making as to assure they’d lead to nothing but entirely preventable and avoidable hardship. A year of otherwise lucky, ostensibly intelligent people doing things they know deep down they shouldn’t but expecting their privilege to see them through to the other side, as so many times before, ensuring that the speeding, oncoming 18-wheeler whose headlights they see heading directly for them won’t hit them, that the inevitable tragedy dictated by those decisions to ignore every red flag and every pleading friend and everything going on around them, the outcome that everyone—even, somewhere deep inside the individual in question—knows is inescapable, will somehow swerve at the last instant, sparing them, but giving the rush that they thought they needed.

And, of course, a year filled with the stories of the above, the gut-wrenching, harrowing, maddening tales of the things we do to ourselves and others, thousands upon thousands of them, too many to read and certainly too many to bear, each one in its way harder and more awful than the last. And yet humanity finds a way. Humanity finds a way to produce an even more mind-boggling, jaw-widening, full-body-clenching story of woe, self-inflicted disaster and hope against hope—and this one doesn’t even feature anyone suffering or dying from COVID-19. Behold, the worst and hardest thing you’ll read this year:


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