This is gonna be short because I like my goodbyes like my birth control: nonexistent and followed by a prayer.

When I first started at Jezebel, the winter before the site launched in 2007, I was a 27-year-old kid with more guts than sense who thought she had something to prove. One of the many things I've learned in the past eight years is that I actually don't have to prove myself to anyone as my awesomeness has been so fucking blatantly obvious this entire time and my only regret is that I ever—even for one moment—gave a flying fuck about what some asshole had to say about it.

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While I am so, so excited to be starting my next chapter at Vice, it's also really sad to end this one. My co-workers at Jezebel and Gawker Media are my best friends. I love them so much and I've been crying trying to write this fucking thing and my eyelash extensions are falling off. I'd rather tell them all privately what they mean to me as we ride on a stripper pole party bus to Medieval Times tonight that Gawker is paying for.

Anyway, you can follow me on Twitter if you think you'll miss me. And here are some things to remember me by:

Inside the Rainbow Gulag: The Technicolor Rise and Fall of Lisa Frank

The Best Of Pot Psychology

Oprah: 25 Years Of Screaming Celebrities' Names

A 'Dear John' Letter From My Boobs

A Disturbing Montage of Real Housewives Crying Through Botox

I Entered My Baby in a Beauty Pageant and Lost My Mind

Disney Dudes' Dicks: What Your Favorite Princes Look Like Naked

My Six Months as a Dirty, Boob-Swinging Derelict

Judge Judy Vs. Feminists