Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Hunter S. Thompson. 

S. for suicide.

I hated your stupid gonzo journalism.

I hated your stupid egotistical crap as much as I hated your stupid egotistical exit from the world.

Fictional journalism? Crap, Hunter S. Thompson. You summed up the world in which you lived. A smack-head. An alcoholic. A baby boomer who demanded things went your way. A sixties wanker who managed to float above the detritus of a coarse, smut-filled, drug-addled world.

So you could write.

Big fucking deal, Hunter S. Thompson. You were not Robinson Crusoe in that.

is it time for a nap yet? i think so

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