I know it's wrong to assume the illiterate scoundrels that troll Destructoid even know DFW, author of Infinite Jest. I also know it's wrong to assume you care that he killed himself, and was found dead in his apartment. But this man was as big in my life as Mario, and I know at least one of you out there felt the same way. Fuck. Let's remember the good times.



I actually met him back when I was touring colleges in 2006-2007. He was, for lack of better words, fucking rad. I couldn't help but be a little fan bitch and tell him how his work kept me going through high school, and how my lunches were spent reading his novels in between mooching off my friends DS and listening to shitty MP3 rips of the Arcade Fire's Funeral. He said something to me that seemed worth memorizing at the time, but I had forgotten it by the next morning. Right now, I wish I could remember it. I imagine it was something profound that would make me happy when skies were gray, and make me strong when I felt weak, or some equally sappy cliche that amounts to understanding that being a whiny bitch doesn't make the world any better. Goddammit you son of a bitch. Goddammit.

http://www.nytimes.com/aponline/books/AP-Obit-Wallace.html?_r=1&hp&oref=slogin

Why you gotta be a punk like that David? Why? Why did you have to go out like the bitch you convinced me not to be? Goddammit. God fucking dammit.

This is like finding out that the Tooth Fairy was real, she just killed herself and your parents took over to keep the truth from you.