R.I.P.


To piggy back on The Youngest, David Foster Wallace hung himself on Friday night. What a terrible and terribly inconsiderate way to go. There's nothing quick or painless about a self-hanging, and the wife finds you swaying eerily back and forth, bug-eyed and with soiled pants. I imagine that a high majority of self-hangers have second thoughts when their throats makes cough-gargling noises and their feet point down, reflexively scraping the air.

So when the urge strikes to make a hasty, and premature exit, take a tablespoon of this stuff every day for a few weeks. I take it every day, and I'm right as rain. It doesn't flood your system with serotonin like those nasty, over prescribed SSRIs. It just makes you feel normal, and normalcy is easily medicated with drinking.

David Foster Wallace's only vice was Kodiak chewing tobacco, which he chewed copious amounts of while writing his novels. So let's all raise a plug and spit some tobacco juice for a modern genius of letters.

Here's mud in your eye.