New Yorker fiction is depressing

This analysis of New Yorker fiction has at least one glaring omission: no discussion of the topic or tone of the fiction. Namely, that in the past year the fiction has become increasingly depressing, to the point that I often can't fall asleep afterwards until I sing the alphabet 20 times to myself.

I don't see this addressed in the FAQ either.

For example (in reverse chronological order):

• This story set in a post-apocalyptic (due to global warming, only 30 years in the future)world involves multiple homicides and one forced miscarriage!
• I didn't even read this one by DFW, because just thinking about his suicide was awful enough.
• Ambiguously lonesome narrator stuck in Indianapolis during a snowstorm has a chance encounter with former girlfriend distraught over abduction of her two daughters? Sure!
• Oh, this girl was part of a suicide pact when she was young, survived to tell the story but spends the rest of her life trying to cut herself off from the world.
• A fat lady and her dog die prematurely in this one, and it is relatively light in tone. A humor piece compared to the others (I do like Stephen King).
• In a misguided attempt to recapture the pleasure of his youth, he returns to a part of Malawi where he did community work, only to get malaria, get robbed, and die slowly in a strange land surrounded by people who don't like him.
• After attempting to renovate his old family home, he loses all of his money and friends and the house burns down.
• This story was, for me, the most shocking. It wins points for brevity and precision. I was furious after I read it.

These are just a few examples; I could have summarized each story from the past year and included it on the list of stories that make me sick to my stomach.

The recurring theme, if there is one, is that you are alone in this world. And even when you try to connect with people, or think you have connected, you remain alone, and those bonds are fragile and transient.

THANKS A LOT.