Monday, Monday

It rained all day today.

I spent all weekend holed up in my cell. Although, inadvertant, throwing out my back was a hell of a lot cheaper than rehab.

Upon emergence, I learned Hunter S. Thompson shot himself yesterday.
Within the same hour, three people called because they had just heard and wanted to see if I was okay.


One friend spoke of her wedding invitations.
Later, I argued with my mother over the same thing, born out of a sick prestige that has evolved within me over these last years where font and content now somehow matter absolute.

I stumbled upon a new picture for my computer areas and printed two out on the color printer in the flight office.

I fought the internet to get ahead on my flight planning. Hours of refreshing molasses for lock ups, hindering the pretty, colorful maps that already exhaust my time, intellect, and patience worn as thin as the paper they are wasted upon for a moron that doesn't need them anyway.

I finished the last of 327 thank you letters for donations to the Las Vegas Little Theatre.

I entered 20 more addresses into the wedding database.

I was almost home when I remembered I left the other copy of the picture on the photographer's printer.
I had to smile.
Taken on his ranch in Colorado, it was Hunter S. Thompson standing in three feet of snow with a cocked 12 gauge shotgun aimed at a typewriter.


Though worth much less than the thousands of words he had his way with, it is a new reminder of something I never should have forgotten.

I left Colorado to find out for myself.
I am still here, and you are missed.
He has you on his hands now...
that lucky bastard.