So it goes.

You could count my age without using all ten fingers on your hands when I first picked up a copy of Slaughterhouse Five. I recall my father handing it to me with explicit instructions not to let anyone see me reading it- that is, he didn't want my teachers and classmates, etc, to catch on that I was reading a book that had such prolific uses of the word fuck in it.

Over the years, I've read every single one of his novels, and it is hard to find one that I don't already own (although there was a certain ex girlfriend who helped herself to a couple volumes and never returned them) not to mention the film adaptations of two of the three that I am aware of.

I've even toyed with the idea of trying to write a screenplay of one of his novels. I won't tell you which one, because a) I haven't actually written it and b) I've never written a screenplay, so I'm sure it would, frankly, suck.

Let me say this, as I have to start working now. Way back here, I wrote up a list of my heroes. After reviewing it now, I see that I completely forgot Mr. Vonnegut. This is shameful. This is misleading. This is incorrect.

We'll miss you, sir.