He Who Makes a Beast of Himself Gets Rid of the Pain of Being a Man
Guest Post by Tori Ryan
When Dan came to bed last night, he woke me up. This generally is a harbinger of bad, bad news. It was. He told me that Hunter S. Thompson was, well, gone.
What a fucking wake-up. I guess the shock I feel as I sit here and type this morning isn’t that he is dead, it’s how he died. I guess I always figured that one day I would wake up to a headline like “Gonzo Journalist Thompson dead after consuming half a pound of psychadelic mushrooms, covering himself in war paint, blowing up tractor factory”. I can’t imagine the pain he must have been in to do it himself, and let his son find him. I can’t believe that he could find life… leaveable. Its so hard for me to hear that he shot himself because he was the one guy I always figured was really making the most of his time on the Twirling Dirt Ball. If he can’t keep putting one foot in front of the other, how can any of us?
It’s weird to sit here and feel so raw at the news of the passing of a total stranger. I miss him so much all ready.