I'm on the verge of thirty. I'm the snail sliding across the razor. I'm falling apart slowly from here on in.
No upgrades.
No new parts.
I watched Garden State tonight for the second time. What is Zach Braff--12? Fuck. Talented cock. What a beautiful piece of shit he made. Damn it. I love him. He made The Graduate of my generation. Nasty piece of shit!
You can never go home again...He took an emotion...an experience most of us go through 5-10 years after moving out of our parents' nest and created a peace of art that envelopes the observer in that moment. The music...the acting...everything feels right and together creates this symphony of bitter-sweet existential "Who-the-fuck-am-I?" angst/exitement.
It's inspiring and makes me wonder why I can't just look at my life and write it down. I need more motivation and self control. I have to stop letting the internet trash and media waste my time.
Even the great late Doctor had self discipline when it came to writing. The Gonzo of Journalism did enough acid to warp the nervous system of a rhino, but he kept his fingers glued to the typewriter every night. God Bless him.
I'm going to miss him. I've never met him--I'm just a fan boy who dressed up as the Duke three Halloweens in a row, but fuck...there's nobody better to be for a day then Hunter S. Thompson. Call whoever you feel deserves it a "Pig Fucker." Start screaming and shouting in a crowded elevator that tiny Tricky Dicks are gnawing your nut sacks off. It's fun. It's free. It's what everyone wants to do but doesn't dare. That's the key to our love of Hunter. He had the balls to do what ever the fuck he wanted. He was us unbound by societal constraints and he projected these actions through the amplification of his eloquent prose. He felt like a father to many of us...or at least me...because he pushed his readers to live. Hunter, where ever you are, thank you. Thank you, you Pig Fucker.
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