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Mischief Managed

Erik Petersen just committed suicide. He was one of my all time favorite songwriters. His band Mischief Brew had just released their first record on Alternative Tentacles and were planning a European tour.

I'm currently reading the Pale King by David Foster Wallace. I think he's the best writer of the 21st century so far. He killed himself too.

These guys were so universally beloved. Their art careers were going great. Everyone was telling them all the time how awesome they were. So what the fuck?

I've felt the scary type of depression before, where every cell in your body aches. But for me that's only happened when I lost a lover or a dog. My run of the mill blues are nowhere near intense enough to where I'd consider suicide an option.

I'm not universally beloved. I'm not even always likable. I'm usually not making art that people worship. Does that make me lucky? Does always being likable take so much out of you that life becomes unlivable?

Anyway, the world lost a great one. RIP.

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