So I was just about to write this semi-insane post about how the USC-Ohio State game is like a strange stand-in for the upcoming presidential election, in both the natures of the two teams mirroring the natures of the two parties, and also the similarity of certain themes inherent in the pre-game media buildup, and then just before I started writing said post I logged onto Facebook and found out, via several friends' status updates, that David Foster Wallace fucking hanged himself.
So now I've got pretty much nothing. Except: is it weird to feel so blown apart by this? Is this how I was supposed to feel when Kurt Cobain shot himself, except when Kurt Cobain shot himself I had trouble mustering anything but a kind of detached sense of this being a big deal?
I think I need a drink. And maybe half a pack of cigarettes.
Fuck.
3 comments:
yeah, man.
that's all i got.
Read The Depressed Person from Brief Interviews. Other than that, I got nothing.
I kept thinking that this post needed some humor but could only come up with roughly want TMC did.
and I kept mumbling fuck, a lot.
Perhaps because it reminds us that none of us are as well adjusted as we like to pretend.
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