to weird to live, to rare to die (or so I thought)

I'm not sure what it is, but something in my self-conscious has been making me relive parts of my senior year. For no apparent reason, I've been listening to the pop-punk that littered the eighteenth year of my life. Random thoughts have brought out of no where the memories of the red-haired kid I called love in that year. And today, today reminded me of a college campus visit in 2005. That's because that day was exactly three years ago today. That was the day my hero died.
President's Day,ironically enough, was the day I woke up in a Columbia hotel with a U.S. News at my door and the words on the front of the paper. Writer Hunter Stockton Thompson had killed himself. It was a surprise at first, then I realized it really wasn't. And here I was visiting Mizzou to become a journalist. Something I wanted to do because of Thompson. Three years have passed, and I've given up on that shell of a dream.But not a day goes by where he doesn't affect me.
I won't kid myself and pretend that Thompson didn't affect my curiosity with drug usage. The Robo-trip, the ecstasy, the acid: non of these were taken without thinking about him first. Back in that year it happened, in 2005, I got my Thompson-based nickname "Raoul Duchess" from a man involved in the local drug culture scene.The word "Duchess" is now on me forever in the handwriting of Ralph Steadman on my left arm.
I admire admiration for Thompson in other people. When I meet another fan, one who almost meets my level of adoration, it's instant attraction. A man once called me gonzo, and for Christ's sake I dated him for three months! Mutual love for HST has even given me the strangest attraction to an older man. But I know that a shared fascination isn't enough for him to leave her and cross state lines for a silly little girl. But with gonzo, anything is fucking possible, right?
The subject of Thompson's death is a hard on for me. Some call it murder, a government conspiracy cover-up due to Thompson's discussion of Sept. 11 and the involvement of the current administration. But Thompson has begun winding down his life before that final day. He gave his prized possession, a gift he had recieved from "Dr. Gonzo," to his son Juan. Thompson wasnever quiet about his feelings on suicide; he would never want to die slowly and out of his control. After watching my Grandpa slowly waste away, I am of the same belief, but I think I will be too cowardice to do anything.
Most people fall back on religion to comfort them in the wake of death, but how does the idea of Heaven and Hell soften the blow of Thompson killing himself after the life he lived? I find comfort in celebrating his life and all the good he has done for me (with heavy drinking!) But even if judgment is someday passed, I will show up to his heavenly trial, full of praise for his soul. This day always brings death to my attention. Like relationships, I will miss the good times when life is gone, but it will be for the best because of all the pain.