I was just coming in to mourn Elizabeth Wurtzel.
I read the headline a couple of hours ago, but I'm still walking around like someone's knocking me upside the head. I'm in a public place, around colleagues, so I'm trying not to weep as I write this.
I actually read her most famous work *last. But ages ago, while in film school, I found a copy of Bitch, and was drawn in immediately. Years later I read More Now Again -- her story of post-Prozac Nation fame, overlaid with what she was doing while writing Bitch. The style of that rambling repetitive messy tome suddenly made sense!! ("So **this is your writing on Ritalin!")
I loved her, nonetheless. We disagreed on many things, but she was my Hunter Thompson-sized inspiration.
Thanks Lizzie. For all of it. May you find the peace in heaven that you denied yourself on Earth.