I hate it when perfectly good weekends go bad on Monday morning. I think I will sleep through all further Mondays.
Hunter S. Thompson – patron saint of weirdos – shot himself at home. Naturally the loss is great, even if you feel his best days were behind him. The real disappointment is that he took the coward’s way out, the way of the sissy, the weakling – those without the peculiar brand of toughness he often espoused.
I’ll miss the odd old bastard but I’ll shed no tears for suicides.
So much for being chock full of true grit.