Monsters
If Nemhauser's dive-bar confessions felt like the only honest voice in a world drunk on performative outrage, Dederer doubles down with essays that eviscerate our worship of broken geniuses. She dissects our hunger for monsters—Polanski, Picasso, Michael Jackson—with the same deadpan brutality you craved, refusing redemption arcs or moral comfort while admitting we stream the predator's film anyway, laughing at our own hypocrisy without begging forgiveness.