That's a lie. The FIRST thing I heard this morning was the fucking snowplows. BEEP BEEP BEEP. VROOOMMM. Scrrraaaaapppee THUNK Scraaappppeee. Half an hour, forty five minutes, who knows how long it went on. I sandwiched my head between two pillows to no avail.

I fell back asleep and awoke to the nasty news. Hunter S. Thompson shot himself. I didn't know what it meant. Suicide, accident, was he dead? I fell back asleep with resolve in my mind to look into this promptly at 7:30am when I was supposed to wake up.

When Cobain killed himself I muttered "holy shit" under my breath. I was driving in my blue 1988 Chevy Nova in northwestern Wisconsin, passing by my old junior high school. When Elliot Smith died I raised my eyebrows. I have a policy about getting choked up about celebrity deaths, but it's different with Hunter S. Thompson for some reason. You're filled with anxt, you have a drug problem, you kill yourself and that's that, mattress man.

I don't know anything about Hunter Thompson's personal life. I don't know why he shot himself, but I feel like there's got to be a good reason. I don't really want to know what it is.

I read an article that said Thompson shot himself at "his compound outside the exclusive ski resort of Aspen, Colorado". Compound? How many guns does a person have to own before their home becomes a "compound"?

I woke up and padded into the computer room. Google news gave me the low down. I got in my car to go to work and turned on the radio. They were talking about it. Sandra Dee got a brief sentence and Hunter Thompson got a whole segment. I hope he would've appriciated that.

I hate it when celebrities die and everyone pretends like they know them personally. I wish I did know Hunter Thompson personally. I wish I were Bill Murray getting a call at 3am from him about revolutionizing the golf world with a new sport called "Shotgun golf".