Proving that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree -- or that at the very least the tree has a pretty sturdy branch -- Nicholas Hughes, son of Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath, hanged himself yesterday, immediately gaining more fame than he had ever received in his entire life. Well played, Mr. Hughes.
In other news, this bloge is starting to profoundly bother me. Starting to. I dunno, maybe it was the little baby wandering around the bed that did it, the realization that all life is a futile dance with misery and depression. Or maybe it was just something I had for dinner. It's hard to tell sometimes.
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