Hunter S. Thompson put a cap in his own ass yesterday.
Depending on how much of his work you have absorbed, and how you interpret it, this is either a fitting end or not. I haven’t read much, so I’m not going to try and interpret right now. Instead, I’d like to share my Thompson story with you.
The year was 2001, the impact of 9/11 was just starting to sink in, and it was really goddamn cold and snowy. It was one of those days when the weather was so impressively shitty that lights just didn’t seem to be able to cut through the perpetual darkness. I was a student in Mr. West’s Engl 102 class, a class that had been weeded down to the very dedicated and the very fucked by the dual facts that West was a real hard-ass to those who obviously didn’t try, which was most of the school, and that it was at 8 goddamn AM. (more)
Continue reading “We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.”