God Fucking Damn It

Terry Pratchett has announced that he has a form of early-onset Alzheimers. He hopes to complete at least two more books, but...

Goddamn it all to hell.

Vonnegut dies, Pratchett gets this monstrosity, but the smirking chimp goes on with his song and dance. Granted it looks like he's aged 25 years over his so-called Presidency, but still.

And that fucker Cheney? What does it take for that man to die? Six heart attacks by my count now. SIX. What. the. fuck.

On a purely selfish personal note, none of the planned books are in the Witches cycle, indeed the next two are not Discworld at all, so I'll probably never get the end story for Granny Weatherwax that I've been craving for a decade now. It might say something positive about an author, though, that their death, or severe, terminal illness, hits you in such a personal place that it feels like you, yourself, have been robbed of something material, the same feeling you might get from being mugged or burglarized.

I know of course Pratchett owes me nothing, and I hope nothing but the best for him... but days like this you could be forgiven for thinking the universe owes you a break. Owes him a break.  Of course, it never gives breaks.  It's a bleak, cold expanse of almost-nothingness and the only joy or meaning that could possibly exist is what we make for ourselves.

Pratchett made a lot of joy for me.  

This. Fucking. Sucks.

Source: The Register