Lunch yesterday at the New York Deli (they make a good Caesar salad), lunch today with MSR at a local Cambodian restaurant (very nice), tomorrow drinks after work to celebrate MRE's birthday (possible trouble). I will be careful and keep the alcohol consumption at some reasonable level so I can get up clear headed Saturday morning. I wince even as I write. I am such a sensible fellow, so why do I do it? Write it down, I mean? Embarrassing. But then you know this if you've been reading this journal.

I see where Hunter Thompson's ashes will be fired from a cannon. I have no great difficulty with that - out of a cannon, spread on the ocean: what's the difference? - but I wish he hadn't pulled the trigger. I've not heard he was in pain or suffering from serious malady. Had life become so little that a stunt like this was worth it? I think not, but then I think for me and not for the Good Doctor.

Life is short and, if you can get yourself untangled from all the bullshit, it's a pretty good ticket, worth seeing it all the way through to a final curtain. (And, quite honestly, if you can duck out and have dinner then duck out and have dinner and just generally not check out until the man in the black hood drags your ass out the door. Really.) Just a thought, you understand. Just an opinion. I haven't lost friends that I know of through suicide, but the decade isn't over. Real pain, real sorrow - something of which I know little and hope to not learn more - well, OK, I can understand, but a planned bullet through the head? Fuck it.