Special Guest Blogger: Ernest Hemingway

I was a guy that was so full of testosterone that you grew a five o'clock shadow just by saying my name. I was a journalist, boxer, a track runner, spy, a football player, hunter, a water polo player and an ambulance driver in Paris during the first World War which at the time was getting the merde bombed out of  it.
Between wars i hunted big game in Kenya and getting wasted with James Joyce and then WW2 kicked off and i served in the Navy, and organised a resistance party, known as the Irregulars, that helped liberate Paris but got me court-martialed for being an unauthorized armed combatant.
I did love fishing but not for me a boring rod and tackle, i once used a Thompson submachine gun to shoot at a bunch of sharks who were circling my boat hoping for a bit of Hemingway tenderloin.
I was also a bit of a grumpy one especially with other authors, i punched Orson Welles when he decided to offer me a few suggestions on how to improve my writing and writing critic Max Eastman questioned my masculinity.
They do say that verbal insults hurt more than physical pain but they are, of course, wrong, as Eastman discover when i smacked him around the head with one of my books. I also broke John Steinbeck's cane over the head of fellow novelist John O'Hara's head simultaneously pissing them both off.
I also got to reassure my drinking buddy F. Scott Fitzgerald that his manhood was normal size which you don't get to do everyday.
There was two days in January 1954 which were fun, first my plane crashed in Nairobi and the plane i then caught to seek medical care in Entebbee crashed on take off and caught fire on the runway, rupturing my liver, spleen, kidney and fracturing my skull. Some American newspapers ran my obituary but i disappointed them by surviving.
Maybe it was the bump to the head but i grew more and more paranoid, and believed that i was being bugged, followed, and constantly spied upon by the FBI because i spent so much time in Cuba and was so pally with Fidel Castro that they thought i was a Communist but i was convinced i was going mad so my friends and family thought my extreme paranoia was a byproduct of my heavy drinking and depression, and encouraged me to check into a psychiatric hospital, where i received a series of shock treatments.
They never helped and on my release, i made two other suicide attempts before i finally managed it.
Now you may have heard some differing accounts of what led up to the event but i never had terminal cancer or money problems and it wasn't that i was really bad at gun safety, i just had enough of living and shot myself in the face with a shotgun.
Ironic that the Nazi's, airplanes and sharks couldn't do it but my suspicion of my own Government did, that and having a couple of hundred volts shot through my brain 20 times.