Most days I’m okay but every now and then I remember there won’t be any more Discworld books and I can’t breathe. Those books kept me alive when my brain wanted to kill me. Because Pratchett was so prolific, there was always a new Discworld novel near enough on the horizon and I didn’t want to miss out. The same brain that kept telling me to check out as soon and painlessly as possible also kept telling me to just read the next Pratchett first. And then one day, the deathwish was gone.
I was so angry about the state of the world and it made me feel less crazy to see that Terry Pratchett was just as angry as I was. (But better at expressing it). The books made me laugh so I could handle another day. There were characters who thought like me. No one else (that I have found) writes characters who think like me. It made me feel less stupid. The fact that so many people loved them too made me feel less like the perpetually odd one out. Weirdos and normies alike. We all loved Discworld. Fuck a world that gives EOA to a brain like that.