Thanks, first, to Lock, Balk, and Mohney, who brought me in to talk about the job based on the fact that I had once mocked Chuck Klosterman in a very public venue. Based on that, and little else, they got Denton to hire me. (Weird! But this is how things work, apparently.)

Once I was hired, I was told that they'd hired another editor at the same time, and her name was Emily. We decided to have lunch at Rice, which I guess is no longer on Mott Street, and we decided that we liked each other and would have to unite against the big, mean boys. Which we mostly successfully did, I think! Except then Choire came back, which kind of upset that equilibrium, because it's just not the same to unite against a gay.

I remember this time that Josh totally took our not getting into a book party at the Waverly Inn in stride and bought me a glass of rosé at Morandi, where we saw Betsey Johnson looking completely insane and he showed me his iPhone. Aww, Joshie! I'll miss you.

Then there was this time that Choire had us all (except Balk) to his house on Fire Island, and that was when Emily and I started talking about the Emperor's Children and who should play whom in the movie. We also cooked way too much food on the grill, and walked through the sketch forest-beach between the Pines and Cherry Grove. Ew!

In, like, March I made Choire take me to Tom & Jerry's on Elizabeth Street and told him that I wanted to be full-time, and he suggested I start writing about the media. I remember being all like, "Um... media? But I have no sources and it's scary!" He told me it would be fine, and it mostly was, except when people would call me up and yell at me. Then I would ask myself why I was doing this job. That didn't happen super often, though.

Another fun thing was that I could also write about things I was obsessed with, like a certain show on MTV, a certain little D.C. magazine, and the great liberal arts colleges of this country.

Also? You commenters are craaaazy! I love you. Keep in touch, for reals?

Oh God. I've stalled for long enough. Is this really going to be it? After who knows how many posts, how many IM conversations, how many off the record emails? It's all over. It's been amazing. Seriously. I'm getting all choked up now and my dog is looking at me funny, so I think I'm going to have to stop... Oh, wait! One last thing. I made up this handy list of people I love and people I hate. Just for reference!

People I Hate: Joel Stein. Most n+1 editors. Marty Peretz. Bill Carter. Dave Zinczenko. Wesleyan students. Balk. Lewis Lapham. P*r*z Hilton. Spencer Pratt.

People I Love: Janice Min. David Carr. Jack Shafer. Balk. Nat Ives. Nikki Finke. Chris Noth.

Okay, that's really it.

XOXOXOXOXOXO,
Doree

• Subject: Hi from Gawker
  To: Joel Stein, Joel Stein's wife
  Hi Joel,

  Good talking to you last night. If you, or your wife, is interested in commenting on Gawker, sign up here:

  ==============================
  ==============
  GAWKER COMMENTS INVITATION
  Click this link (or paste into a browser) to accept the invitation:
  [redacted]
  ============================================

  Cheers,
  Doree

• From: Joel Stein's wife
  Yeah. Like I'm going to fall into that trap, so that she/they can make fun of ME as well.
• From: Joel Stein
  You couldn't lay off me for one day? I did not almost kill David Hasselhoff. I swear.
  I need to get a copy of that book.
  Nice meeting you too. I hope to meet all the people who hate me individually. It will make a fine book.
  Joel
• From: Doree
  Ah, can't wait!

  You should meet Balk. He's the one who wrote the Hasselhoff thing.

  Best,
  Doree

I didn't prepare a speech! Let me take out my notes: This has been both the most exhilarating and weird experience of my life, and I wouldn't take back any of it. Thanks to Jesse Oxfeld for being by my side for a big chunk of it, to Lockhart Steele for always hearing what I'm saying, to Nick Denton for encouraging and financing my insolence, and to Choire Sicha for rescuing me from journalism school. (Oh my God, could you imagine me at Columbia? They would've made me wear a helmet!) Big thanks, also, to Chris Mohney and Alex Balk, who've had the unique misfortune of dealing with me these past few weeks. This bitch now rests in their calloused, capable hands. And, as one is wont to do in these situations, I tip my 40 to every single one of you who reads this godforsaken thing. This may be the most earnest thing I ever write, but there's no way in hell the site would work if you weren't there. You're wankers, but really important wankers. Even you, Robert Joseph at Earthlink, who has sent me consistent hatemail for two years straight. You, sir, have been impressive.

I guess that's it. I was going to make this final post one of atonement, writing amusing individual apologies to all the people who I've pissed off, but you know what? I'm not sorry. At all. It was fun!
—Jessica

WHAT mildly unstable Daily Candy staffer emailed Gawker management on my first day to tell them that I was "adorably pudgy"?

WHICH gay publisher once told me he hangs out with attractive straight men "for status"?

WHAT Radar staffer, after 20 minutes of small talk, drunkenly asked when we were going to hook up?

WHICH publicist — whose number I don't even have — tells magazine editors that I call him for dirt on said editors?

WHAT gossip writer, when he first met me, told me I was "hot" and then asked how much I weighed?
—Jessica

From: Joe Dolce
Date: Friday, October 13, 2006 3:08 PM
To: Jessica @ Gawker
Subject: One day our paths will cross

Douchebag

—Jessica
Earlier: Burning Bridges That Never Really Mattered: Joe Dolce Edition

We get our content from all over the place, including magazine editors, many of whom have great gossip about their competitors' foibles. If it's a decent tip that checks out, we'll go with it, axe-grinding or not. Not too long ago, an editor who I actually like very much, even if he works at Star, sent us one of these tips. It was a good story, scoopy enough to run with, and so we did. The item ended up getting a little mileage, and all was right with the world.

Until, shortly thereafter, I posted the following Gawker Stalker sighting of Star EIC Joe Dolce:

9/16 - I had the pleasure of hearing Joe Dolce screaming into his cellphone trying to get the autopsy report for Anna Nicole's son, while 200 other people were trying to listen to a wedding toast a few yards away. By the way, if you have the toxicology reports for Anna Nicole's son, Star magazine is willing to pay $10K for them.

An amusing sighting, but not unexpected — of course a shifty celebrity weekly editor is going to be working overtime on securing some morbid material, and he's not going to let some special day of eternal love get in his way.

About three minutes after that business went up, however, a frantic email arrived from the nice Star editor, which said something along the lines of: "Jessica, Joe is PISSED." Well, of course Joe was pissed. God forbid we use his name in vain. Move along folks, nothing to see here.

Then the phone rang, and I really shouldn't have answered (I think that should actually be a rule around here: don't answer the phone during business hours, because it's almost never good. Email good, phone baaad). It was the friendly Star editor, the one I like, and he was whimpering to me about how the item needed to come down, especially after Star had given Gawker that recent story. But Gawker isn't really a bastion of favor-trading, especially not if something is funny and should be posted. "I'm sorry," I explained, "but once items go up, they don't come down unless it's a legal thing." Which, for better or worse, is absolutely true. Until the lawyers tell us we're fucked, we try not to back down. I really felt bad for the nice editor who called — he was almost begging, and I could tell that he was being badly beaten.

After it was clear that I was not going to budge, he asked if Dolce could call me. "I don't really see the point in—" I started, but click! I'd been transferred to the man himself. That, really, was such a blessing, because it'd been at least 10 years since I was last spoken to like a naughty child. I can't possibly convey to you the tone of Dolce's voice and how disgustingly condescending it was, so take my word for it. Imagine Tim Gunn scolding a 5-year-old for shitting on a Chanel dress, and that'd be about how he sounded. I'm paraphrasing, but the conversation went something like this, all in disturbingly measured tones:

"Jessica, that item needs to be removed now."

"I'm sorry Joe, but we just don't do—"

"Jessica, I am asking that the item comes down. Now. We have been very good to you and have given you items to help ensure your success. [HA! I really loved that part.] This, in the business, is what we call biting the hand that feeds you." He said the last part really slowly, as if he were introducing me to a strange and foreign concept.

"Listen, I appreciate the help you've given Gawker, but we don't pull punches and—"

"Jessica. No — Jessica — Jessica, I am not happy. I do not like to see my name used in these matters. I am demanding that you take down the item."

"No. The item is not—"

"Jessica. Jessica, listen to me. Listen. To. Me. If you do not immediately remove the item, this will be the end of our relationship." I'd no idea, of course, that we were in a relationship. If I'd known, I'd have worn something nice.

"Well, Joe, I'm sorry to hear that [polite lie], but it is what it is."

"Jessica, I am giving you one more chance—"

And this annoying banter went on for some time. I got to the point where I was ready to pull out my hair and use it as a noose, so I finally passed the buck. Any phone call of this nature that lasts for more than 15 minutes is above my pay grade, so I said the best I could do was let Dolce talk to Chris Mohney, Gawker's managing editor, whose pay grade ostensibly does cover dealing with megalomaniacs. I assured Dolce that Chris would have the exact same response, but he didn't care. "You have whoever is above you call me." And...scene.

Poor Chris was briefed on the absurd situation, called Dolce's office, and was transferred directly to the cranky princess. As soon as Chris identified himself, Dolce hung up on him. Nice! Later, an assistant said it was "a mistake" — huh? — and asked that Chris call back. Chris, who is far too kind for his job, actually did so and had a very haughty Dolce inform him that "the young lady" who had he dealt with earlier "refused to remove the offending item." As if Chris were going to do something to rectify this life-threatening situation? Chris gave him the same spiel as I had, and the take away was that Dolce was actually quite pitiable, being so deeply upset about a Gawker Stalker sighting, of all things. The item remains and Dolce probably spent that weekend crying into his Laura Ashley pillow, his houseboy trying to comfort him with chamomile tea.

I suspect that this may be one of the last times I ever get to write the word "douchebag" and have it published, but I can't think of anyone more deserving of the honor. So, to clear the air: Joe Dolce, I'm sorry you're such a douchebag.
—Jessica

So what to do with my last day atop this nifty little soapbox? If you've got inane or asinine post ideas, I'm seriously open to suggestions. In the meantime, let's start with a random cat picture.

Yeah, that felt good.
—Jessica