Hunter S. Thompson has committed suicide.
Thompson could be a real jerk, of course, especially in pursuit of the funny. But always lurking underneath his sarcastic, wicked humor was the heart of a frustrated idealist, someone who sincerely hoped for a world that was better than this. I always strongly related to that push-pull in him between the cyncial desire to bury and obscure and mock everything that causes pain and the heart that reveals its hope for better a bit starkly at times. I feel it now, the push to make light of how sad it makes me feel that he finally tipped over the edge versus my desire to just admit it.
I'm not looking forward to my boyfriend waking up and finding this out.
Roxanne has a reader for y'all.