Unless you’ve been living under a rock (and if that’s the case, I’m sorry; it sounds quite uncomfortable), you know that the science fiction genre has lost two icons: Leonard Nimoy and Terry Pratchett.
Their last tweets–undoubtably written by assisstance or family members–are poignant and clever and endearing and give us, the fans, something to hang on to.
I have a feeling my last tweet–if twitter is around when I die, and I’m sort of hoping it’s not, because that means I’ve outlived the internet or at least twitter’s usefulness–will be something inane like: “kellyswails: I haven’t driven the car in two months and the first time out I hit a squirrel. #karmafail” or “kellyswails: Some motherfucker ate the last goddamn thin mint. I think I might be that motherfucker. I hate me, sometimes.”
It’s the difference between knowing the end is nigh or being suddenly ripped from the world. I don’t know which is better. I don’t know if there is a “better.”