Regrets

We Regret These Errors

We Regret These Errors

Sorrowful Remorse

From the Desk of Katie Holmes's Fetus

From the Desk of Former Monorail Director Joel Horn

Dept. of Corrections

I Regret Not Killing Benjamin Colton Barnes Before He Got to That Park Ranger

I Regret Those Girls in Roslyn

I Regret Republicans Giving Me a Bad Name

I Regret That Señor Romney Lost the Election

We Regret These Errors.

We Regret These Erors

From the Desk of Michael Jackson

I Regret Being Consigned to Eternal Damnation with the Guy Who Drew The Family Circus

I Regret Not Taking Out Lance Armstrong

We Regret Mentioning Suicide, Publishing Essays about Suicide, and Placing Visual Depictions of Suicide on Our Cover

I Regret Nothing

From the Desk of J. Edgar Hoover

We Wish to Announce Several Regrets (We Wish to Announce Several Regrets)

What You Think About When You Think About Chile

I Regret What's Happening to This City

That Sculpture Is a Stain on Our Reputation

I Regret Not Being Considered Food and Offer, for Your Enjoyment, This Recipe

A Guide to the Jokes in This Issue for the Staff of Gawker

Please Allow Me to Set the Record Straight

I Regret Rehab

I Regret that Pit Bulls Find My Face So Delicious

I Regret Macklemore's Tweets

I Regret Killing All-Ages Music

We Regret We’re So Dumb

Jason Crosby

I, the Enumclaw horse, regret fucking Kenneth Pinyan to death on that warm summer night in July. It was not my intention to kill the poor man, but he-he-he kept asking for more and more of me. To the best of my ability, I informed the men who were helping me fuck (having sex with a human requires teamwork) that I was deep enough already, but Pinyan told us that he-he-he could handle it—he-he-he wanted all of me in him. And I gave him all of me, and it wasn't like he-he-he screamed or anything. He-he-he just said, "Big Dick"—that's the name he-he-he gave me—"Big Dick, I think something popped." I pulled out, and he-he-he stood up, and at that moment all of us in the barn knew from the look on his face that the worst had happened. We passed the living limit that stands between a man and a horse like myself, he-he-he was soon to meet the maker of all things—the maker of this farm, the maker of grass, the maker of Mount Rainier, which I stare at when I'm not eating grass. The next day, I learned from other animals on the farm that by the time he-he-he was dumped at the hospital, he-he-he was, he-he-he was, he-he-he was dead for sure. Pinyan. I will always remember the happy times we had in the barn. I love carrots.