first thing this morning my friend's list gave me the news hunter s. thompson shot himself. i couldn't say it surprised me; his death was like a friend's a few years ago. moths burn out on bright lights; they do not die of heart attacks or in the sleep of their late years. i gradually wrote dr. gonzo on my hand over the course of the morning (i told dan not to laugh at me, and i don't think he knew that was why). i bought two books. i heard a brief piece of a speech from the seventies. his ____ means something to me. it makes me feel like i have something to do. the first time i was able to escape the front end for a few brief moments of sanctuary, i saw the part of tommy boy where he finally gets it right and sells the box without the guarantee printed on it to the tough businessman in the blue factory suit. and then i went back to the machine. or was that the second and the first was . . it was crowded with pizza and salt and vinegar chips and onion rings, full of smells and people. my sales manager tried to drag me kicking and screaming off the floor and kept saying, "c'mon sara, go back to work! now!" over and over. it was like a very entertaining nightmare.
shit. i forgot the stone i threw in the fire that one night, the one that stayed in the fireplace. this past week has been like the death of the writer. a shot to the head and not at all surprising. my dad broke down, my brother went to jail. elise was troubled. we spent a few hours with mary, boxing up the trailer and deciding who should take what. i didn't go to school. i spent my time talking to my family [as i write this my grandmother calls] like i suddenly exist again. i celebrated nick's birthday and i think he did a little, too. we spent an evening at a weak sauce show with karina, elise, derek and random extras from clearwater. and. .
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