What struck me most about the death of Sam Grittner was how that just as easily could’ve been me. I, too, have struggled with thoughts of hitting rock-bottom and cleaning up: no more shots of THV before going to work as a county lineman#getnup, no more bong hits before getting lost in the jungle room at the aquarium for six hours#metime, no more one-hitters before PTA meetings#Concerned.

It just as easily could’ve have been me telling the cops “I’m not the guy you want” (paraphrasing), and then driving myself to the hospital anyway (he took a train), before finally dying at the place where truly great twitter accounts go to die — the psych ward.

It is a sad matter of course that when one dries out, so does the dramatic, ebullient tension between wanting to please, and the manic, self-deluded (read “charisma”) struggle that actually makes that happen.

Now that Sam Grittner’s corpse is putting Sam Grittner’s corpse first, we get to enjoy his lithe yet fruitless struggle no longer. We, the free comedy-loving public, have suffered a tragic loss.

…Gone, but not forgotten — You’ll be missed, SG.

[A full account of Sam Grittner’s death can be found here: https://medium.com/@samgrittner/dying-to-live-ea4a8ab91d75?source=linkShare-afe678be4f7f-1481112389]