Our eyes feel like they’re bleeding; our lungs are steel wool. There are 13 empty cups and bottles surrounding our laptop. Every so often we reach to take a sip and—blech!—that latte’s from last week, circa Burn After Reading. Press releases, batteries, loose change, Vaseline and deteriorating apples litter our desks. Caressing our feet are swag bags, many of the boxes half-open from 3 a.m. chocolate quests. A dead moth has been wilted in a puddle of Baileys for nine days, and each day we check to see if it has altered form; for whatever reason, this was a source of comfort. Days were spent tearing through Yorkville, dashing from one interview to the next, stalking celebrities and making friends with doormen. Subsisting on coffee and nuts, we plowed through the streets like vamped-up Harriet the Spies, ears perked and eyes alert for the most provocative scoop. In the evening, clothes were torn off and makeup pressed on; then, a game began to find glamour in the pile of dirty laundry. A hobble up to Dundas in ridiculously steep stilettos would end with the violent hailing of a cab. Nights were a maze, us searching endlessly for the most happening TIFF hoo-ha, knocking back a half-dozen dirty martinis along the way. So many new friends were made! Returning home, battered by the decadence, the night would end with some bleary-eyed typing, sorting of all the miscellaneous cards collected (“Henry who?”), and two Advil for good measure.

Now, when we look into the immediate future, all we see are country fairs, pumpkins and corn. The biggest thing on our agenda is what to be for Halloween, and this is making us angry. We miss you, Brad Pitt! Goodbye, everyone! Until next year.—Jen McNeely