Tell me something to stop me crying over this shit. The one fucking author I cared about.

He wasn’t just an author. He was a teacher, our favorite one, equal parts magnificent bastard and magnificent source of enlightenment. We had a personal relationship with his words.

To some of us, Hitch was the father of our intellect. We came of age with him showing us the very best of ourselves — our contrarian nature, our reason, our rational minds. That’s why it hurts so much.

Go ahead, cry. Grieve for him. I’m over here bawling my eyes out.

It’s okay. He deserves it.