Monday, February 21, 2005

Goodnight, Doctor.

It's over. He's gone.

Hunter S. Thompson shot himself sunday night at the age of 67, forever ending the era of journalism that he had helped usher in decades before, leaving us with content on televisions and in newspapers that has as much in common with journalism as it does with pudding.

My eye caught the headline in Yahoo's top news list, on the side of their home page, and I felt the shock go through my, from the top of my head down to the base of my spine. I was dizzy. i was nautious. The world spun wildly around me. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true.

The doctor is gone.

If I was a better writer, I'd try to use a gonzo style to say something profound, but I'm not that better writer. I'm a hack who writes often enough to maintain a certain level of quality, but not often enough to actually improve. I can string together a sentence, but most of the time I can't make it sing.

And all I can do right now, all I can say, is that I'm sad and I'm hurt and I'm angry and I wish to fuck I had a drink right now.

Goodnight, Doctor. Farewell and Godspeed.

And stay weird, wherever you are.

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