Thinking about killing myself is, basically, my national sport. You felt feeble at the end. You weren’t having fun. You’d been chafing under the weight of your foul persona since the 70’s and, when your body started to give out, it became too much. However, you had obligations; not least of which to a sad little 18 year old who drank himself to sleep for the first time the night you died.
I was in my car and on my way to buy an Airport Express when my lung collapsed. I decided to go ahead with the purchase, partially because I wasn’t sure what was happening to me, and partially because I had driven 45 minutes in traffic to get to the computer store.
We spend the next thirty days lodging insults back and forth and in the subtext of our banter Lee and I both recognize so clearly, so deeply, in one another the same disease that had been slowly killing us both since long before we picked up our first drink. A connection so profound it transcends politics, sexism, and late-night comedians.