Regrets

We Regret These Errors

We Regret These Errors

Sorrowful Remorse

From the Desk of the Enumclaw Horse

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 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

Oy! Amy Winehouse here, bangin' at you from beyond the veil, the valley of the shadow of death and all that. You'll all be joining me here sooner or later, and I look forward to meeting you judgmental twats who laughed at me in life, being all: 'Ha-ha-ha! Amy Winehouse is a junkie slag, and we're so much better than her—at least we never wound up in hospital overdosed on heroin, ecstasy, crack, ketamine, and alcohol at the same time! Ha-ha-friggin'-ha!' Well, it's not sweet to laugh at another's pain, mates.

As you voyeuristic fuckers probably know, I died of alcohol poisoning after too much vodka. And why? Because I went to rehab, lurching from high tolerance to low tolerance and then doing a bit of a backslide—chugging the amount I usta made me into a stiff. Everyone said, 'Oy, Amy, you must go to rehab or you'll die!' But it's rehab laid me low, bruvva. After all that suffering—the withdrawals, the pain, the public humiliation—I had to go and die of stupid alcohol poisoning. I gotta be honest, staying the course and falling to a quiet OD on gear might've been the sweeter way to go. recommended